A Glass Rose
by Blackrose Kitsune
Summary: [Undergoing revampage.] A glass rose is perfect to all who see it. Yet it lacks one thing it is not real. Only a facade, just as my life. Not real, and they have the nerve to call me perfect?
1. 1: Contemplations

_**A Glass Rose**_

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**The Ties Which Bind Us**

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_Part I: Contemplations_

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_A glass rose,An object of beautyAdmired for its magnificence,Yet resented for its perfection._

"Mother, I don't feel well," I mouth quietly as I sit down at the kitchen table. I hate having to lie to her, but it is the only way I know that can get me out of having to go through another pointless school day. Another pointless day of living.

"Shuichi." Her voice is gentle, and her tone holds a note of concern. "You've missed four days of school in the last two weeks. That's _not at all like you_; are you _sure_ you're alright?"

_No Mother, I'm not sure I'm all right. I don't know what's come over me recently._

"Yes, Mother," I reassure her. "It must just be the flu. It is autumn, and the weather has been disagreeable as of late," I assure her.

She nods. "Yes, of course. Well, all right then, dear. You just go on up to your room and rest. I'll see you tonight after work."

Now it is my turn to nod.

She smiles and kisses me on the forehead, then stands up rather stiffly and walks out the door, leaving me alone to contemplate…

_Why do I avoid school when I'm such an avid scholar?_

I know why, but I do not wish to come to grips with it. I do not belong at school, and they know it; all of them do. What is more, still, they do not want me there, and I do not want to be there, either.

_Perhaps I will do us all a favor..._

Oh, if only Youko could see my weakness now.

_Humans truly are such fickle creatures: always admiring the things they want, yet envying those who have them._

I rise slowly, the suddenness with which my melancholy has set in stirring me into restlessness, and walk out the door, to my prized possessions: the wild rose bushes growing along the side of the house, covering the ivory paneling in a marvelous scarlet tint.

They are the self-same rose bushes that had been in ill health when I was a child, barely able to manifest my powers. They had truly come a long way since then; from the black, shriveled buds, with hardly an ounce of life in them, to the rich, ruby red blooms holding themselves up proudly today. It is truly amazing what changes time can impose on objects — be they sentient or not. It still causes me to marvel to this day. Time has not neglected me, either. Fittingly, I grew with them. In body and in soul; for they taught me a valuable lesson: _life is fragile, terribly so, and without proper care and guidance, all things shall fall prey to the darkness._

_Ironic; the Great Youko learned his life lessons from a shrub. What has he brought himself to?_

I smile at the bushes, reveling proudly in the success my time, effort, and patient, gentle nurturing, has sown. Then I see it, and my smile turns into a concerned frown. A small bulb is hanging limply off of its stem on one of the farther reaching bushes, the leaves shadowed by the window ledge above, and shielding it from life-sustaining sunlight. Somehow, despite my gentle nurturing, it has succumbed to ill fate.

I approach it, cupping the fragile bloom tenderly in my hands, feeling the cool velvet of the shriveled, blackened petals against my palms, and close my eyes. Within a moment, the bloom begins to glow in a pale silver light, my aura feeding it, strengthening it.

_I have turned myself into a caring, human-loving, half-breed._

Yes, that is correct. The Great Youko had fallen into his own trap by developing a bond with the ningens. I swore never to let it happen, but despite my wishes and best efforts, it had. I sigh.

_Why?_

I shake my head. I do not know _why_ anymore. I gave up on pondering that a long while ago. It is such a pointless question, after all. It is all too apparent that I do not belong here, although I choose to reside here; here, among the very beings who have made my life on good days a mere annoyance, and on bad days an insufferable hell.

_Resentment._

I resent my choice; the choice I made to become human. After what living with the choice ultimately put me through, after all that I have endured — I have had enough. Humans despise me, just as I knew from the start that they would; but I told myself to live with that knowledge. I did. And now, I have had enough.

_I want out._

Suddenly, my mother's face appears in recesses of my mind. Her warm eyes, her gentle smile. Her tender, unquestioning, unconditional love…

_Shiori._

_That — she — is why I have stayed so long._

She is the reason I have stayed here. She is the sole reason why I did not leave at ten years of age, as I had originally intended.

I was Shiori's second child.

Her first pregnancy ended in a stillbirth. The child had not developed properly in the womb, and so, was not strong enough to sustain itself. Shiori had suffered a great deal of pain in her firstborn's death, and the doctor had told her that the chances of her having another hale and healthy child were slim to none.

I suppose I would have — _should have _— met that very same fate, if not for Youko's spirit merging with my mortal body, residing within my very soul.

To this day, I still wonder if that is what granted me rebirth in the first place. Especially, considering that Shiori had told me often times that she had not expected me to survive either. Not even the doctors had expected me to be born healthy. Imagine their surprise.

I was her miracle.

_I cannot take that away from her..._

No matter how badly I want out of it, I will not leave. I know I am one of the woman's few sources of hope and happiness in this mortal world. Yes, of course, she has Hatanaka, and Shuuichi. She is quite happily married. But, I am truly her only child. If I left, she would blame herself.

Humans are like that; they succumb to emotions far too easily.

_And I should talk, as I have readily become one of them._

I shake my head. Yes. I _have_ become one of them. One of the race whose actions always seem to speak for themselves. Humans easily have the wildest, most irrational behaviors I have come to know. They live only for the present moment, with little to no regard for the consequences.

But, I do not suppose I can blame them. Their existence upon this green earth is terribly short in comparison to that of other beings. In the time I have lived with them and spent among them, I can understand why they act as such:

_Just to make the most out of the time they have been given._

Exactly like the rest of us.

Except... Humans are also some of the most vindictive beings I have come to know. They know many more ways to bring about pain and suffering, than they do when it comes to peace and joy.

_So it comes as no surprise that they treat me as they do. It is second nature to them. Almost instinctual. It is only in their human natures to fear what they do not understand._

_I really have brought this all upon myself haven't I_, I muse. I knew from the start what to expect, and I still made the choice to remain here. It surprises me how naïve I have become in these past few years.

Suddenly, I remember the bloom I am tending to. I had gotten so caught up in my cynical musings that I had almost forgotten about it. As I look down at the bulb in my hands, I smile. It has become as healthy as its companions on the bush and those neighboring it; its petals now radiating a vibrant, lively red. It will be just fine now. Feeling accomplished, I release the bud.

The roses are beautiful, one of the few things left in this life that are.

_Perhaps humans are not that horrible…_

To bring about such beauty as this, they must have good intentions. For such pure beauty as this, there must be some good in their hearts; some form of intended good will.

_Maybe there is hope for them after all._

But amongst the ruby red blooms that are the roses, another thing strikes me.

The thorns…

Sharp, dangerous, thorns.

It seems that even what grants beauty, must bring with it pain.

_Maybe not._


	2. 1: Cause & Effect

**The Ties Which Bind Us**

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_Part II: Cause & Effect_

_All envy its beauty;It is elegant and perfect—Everything anyone could want.And it is...In every way one would think important,.All but one way; the most important way:A glass rose may be perfect...But it is not real._

I sit in my room, aimless at it seems, for I am not ill, as I told mother. The mere prospect of me being ill is highly laughable. Youko Kurama becoming ill from a human ailment? That is unlikely — just as much so as Hiei telling Yukina he is her half-brother. Simply: impossible.

Still, I find myself sitting in here, if only to keep my word to the woman. I said I would — or implied I would — wait here. So I will. It is not as though I have anything better to do. Even if I want companionship, all of my acquaintances are attending school. Or, they are supposed to be.

My eyes dance blankly around my room taking in my surroundings, for lack of anything better to do with the free time I have earned myself. Yet, I find there is no point to it. My room is common and bland enough; it offers neither distraction, nor condolence from the monotony. My bed is a simple futon with scarlet sheets. The only other furniture gracing my room is the bookshelf sitting against the back wall, stacked neatly full of books, and a desk sitting beneath my window. The walls are white, the carpet silver.

I find furniture to be cluttering. There is no need for much of it, and it lacks practicality. But suddenly, I resent that my room is so empty. I must wait these long hours for my mother to come home silently, with no distraction as well. The solitude may well kill me now, I muse.

_There was a time when I preferred it as such: complete and utter solitude._

_Alone._

_What had happened?_

I sigh, sinking thoughtfully onto my bed, the mattress moving to contour around my stiffened form.

_What has happened to me in these few, short, years?_

Of course, I know: humans had happened; my humanity had happened. Shiori had happened.

_No, that all could have been avoided. They did not happen..._

_Emotions had happened._

_Emotions?_ Yes. They had happened. Or, at the very least, they had surfaced. I had never given them much thought as Youko Kurama — I had never given anything much thought as Youko. My existence was purely for my own amusement, I suppose. Emotions never stirred me because well, I do not suppose I had them.

But now, emotion seems to be the sole thing running me; dictating my very existence. Funny really, if you consider it. Emotion is what has kept me here — _what keeps me here to this day _— and it is solely responsible for all that has happened to me in these past years.

_But if I never before had emotions... when did they surface?_

I remember my original intentions well.

After my botched burglary attempt in Makai had sent me running into the Ningenkai for refuge, I entered the body of an unborn embryo to gain rebirth. After ten or so years, my powers would have recovered enough to grant me release back into the Makai, at which time I would take my leave of the mortal family that had 'adopted' me. For the longest time, my intentions had stayed as such, barely wavering.

I had no affection towards them, I had no emotions...

But then, it happened.

The first strike.

_"Shuichi, dear, please go check on your father. Tell him dinner is almost ready," Shiori asked her son as she flitted around their small kitchen, gathering things together for their evening meal._

_Her son was dutifully helping his mother. When she asked, he nodded and set down the utensils on the kitchen counter and went off to find his father._

_Leaving the kitchen he wandered down the hall and poked his head into the study, where his father was usually found pouring over some document or other. He was not there, so Shuichi turned and walked back to the front of the house, entering the living room. His father was reclining in an armchair next to the television, reading a book, and hadn't noticed the entrance of his son._

_"Otousan?" Shuichi asked quietly as he drew himself farther into the room, keeping a respectful distance between his father and himself. "Kaasan says it's almost time for dinner; you should come wait in the dining room."_

_His father looked up from his book and gazed at his son, the corners of his mouth tilting into a slight smile._

_"Yes, of course, Shuichi. Tell your mother I'll be there shortly."_

_The boy nodded and turned, intending to return his father's message to his mother in the kitchen._

_Just as he had taken a step towards the door, he heard a painful moan come from behind him; he turned instinctively to see what the problem was._

_His father's book had fallen to the floor, and his father was leaning against the arm of his chair for support, his right arm clutching at the left side of his chest. Shuichi could see the look of pain washing over his father's face as he stood, gasping for breath, teeth gritted in pain, a sheet of cold sweat beaded across his suddenly ashen face._

_He turned and hurried back to his father's side._ _"Otousan, what's the matter?" He asked, helping the man steady himself, bracing himself against the man's wait as he struggled for leverage.._

_His father regained his composure shakily and smiled at his son, coughing slightly, his hand still at his chest. "It's nothing, Shuichi. Just a small moment of pain. I'm alright now, don't worry. Go tell your mother I'll be in shortly," he reassured his son._

_The boy looked at him in a brief moment of doubt before kneeling down and picking up the book his father had dropped. He placed it slowly on the end table sitting beside the frame of the chair._

_"All right, Otousan," he conceded warily, nodding reluctantly._

_"That's m'boy," his father rumbled, steadying himself with a heavy breath, as he rumpled the boy's red hair with his free hand._

_Shuichi nodded, ducking out from his father's hold, for he never much did like people mussing his hair, and made his way to the kitchen to tell his mother._

_"Kaasan, Otousan says he'll be in shortly."_

_She nodded listlessly, waving a hand behind her, ushering him to the table. "Alright, Shuichi, dear. Let's sit down and wait for him so we can eat together, then."_

_"Kaasan? Is something the matter with Otousan?" he asked silently, sitting down at the dining table next to his mother after a subdued moment. He kept his eyes trained steadily on a frayed edge of the tablecloth spread across their table._

_"Why would you ask that Shuichi?" She asked gently._

_When he answered her, his voice was measured, tentative. "Because he was grabbing his chest in pain, and almost collapsed when he got out of his chair."_

_She was silent._

_"Kaasan?" He asked, glancing up curiously, eyes shining._

_"Oh, it's nothing Shuichi," she assured him slowly; he was certain he could hear strain in her voice, but she maintained the forced nonchalance. "Your father must just be hurting from work — he's not the youngest man anymore, you know. Look, he's here now, and fine."_

_His father walked in and took a seat next to his wife and son, his presence a sturdy thing in the doorway. The expression on his face gave nothing of the previous minutes away so Shuichi decided to let the subject go, lest he upset either of them with his impudence._

_"Let's eat."_

_The rest of the meal was silent, as was most of the night. He hadn't had much to say, not that he ever did, so he just retired into his room for the remainder of the night. _

_Sleep eventually took hold of him._

_That morning he was standing in the kitchen, his school bag at hand, preparing to go to school again for a fresh week._

_"Good bye, Kaasan. I'll see you this evening," he said, walking out of the kitchen._

_She smiled at his turned back; she never did understand where he had gotten such manners from, and why he was such a good child. He always had been. Yet, it never ceased to surprise her._

_He was heading to the door when he saw his father. He was sprawled out on the carpet, half-way out the door, on his way to work. He was silent, all but for his ragged breathing, clutching at his chest in the same spot as he had the night before._

_"Otousan, what's the matter?" he asked rushing to his father's side._

_His eyes were closed and his face damp from the line of sweat pouring down his face. He choked on his breath, words failing him._

_"Kaasan, Kaasan!" Shuichi yelled loudly, summoning his mother into the living room._

_She came hurrying out of the kitchen, frantically toweling dry her hands on a dish rag, looking rather harried._ _"What is it Shu_—_" She stopped when she saw the form of her husband on the floor. She rushed to his side immediately, kneeling beside him shakily._

_"Kaasan, what's wrong?" Shuichi asked nervously, moving off to the side to make room for her._

_"It's nothing, go on to school, Shuichi. I'll see you this afternoon," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She kissed him on the forehead gently and ushered him out the door with a wave of her hand. "Go on, you don't want to be late."_

_He nodded hesitantly and hurried out the door, casting one fleeting look back over his shoulder before going on his way._

_At school he pondered silently on what had happened that morning to his father. A feeling of urgency and foreboding had started to swell is his chest, expanding with each passing moment like a helium balloon. Something told him that whatever it was, wasn't 'nothing' as his mother had said. But he did not quite know for himself what it was, either._

_When he finally got out of school he hurried home to appease the growing feeling of urgency within him; to settle the gut feeling he knew to be true, but hoped that for the sake of his mother, was not._

_When he got into the house his emerald eyes quickly searched for his mother. They didn't search far; she was sitting, doubled over in his father's recliner._

_He approached her warily, the heart in his chest heavy with dread._

_"Kaasan?"_

_She looked up, and he saw the silent tears streaming down her cheeks like two twin rivers._

_When she saw her son's confused eyes she only wept harder. "Come here, Shuichi." She motioned quietly to her lap with a shaking hand. Reluctantly, he climbed into her lap, and her arms wrapped around his small waist tightly as she tried to control her tears._

_"What's happened to Otousan?" he asked quietly, hiding the unease in his voice, for he never did much like such displays of affection, though he was already prepared for the worst._

_"He's had a heart attack," she choked out, her voice thick and clogged by tears. "He's passed from this world…"_

_The words rang through his ears, echoing in his thoughts. His mind went numb._

_He did not know what to say. Really, what did he have the right to say? He had never really felt close to his father_ — _never felt close to anyone, really_ — _but he knew that his mother had. She must have, for she was reacting so badly to the news. But he wasn't really sad. He knew humans died _— _everyone died — that was life; nature's way. But, at the sight of his mother, so weak and wrought with pain, he could not help but feel even just a tiny little twinge of pity._

_"Shh... It'll be alright, Kaasan..." he mumbled quietly, turning in her lap. He hesitantly put his arms around her frail figure and pressed himself close to her in a hug. That was what humans called it, wasn't it? He wasn't really certain; he never really partook of showing affection as such, or in anyway. But now, it seemed the natural thing to do._

_He hoped he had done it right._

I sigh as I think back on that day. Yes, it was a few months after my sixth birthday.

That day I changed my mind about the woman who was raising me as her own. No, I won't say I was more affectionate; for the most part, my countenance remained unchanged. But I was friendlier towards her. Perhaps it was because I felt guilty for not realizing sooner that her husband was in peril, and I did nothing to prevent it. Or, perhaps, it was because I felt guilty, feeling that I had somehow brought it on.

Either way, that day changed my look on humans — on her at least. I stopped thinking so lowly of her, and grew more appreciative of the fact that she was raising me as her own, when truthfully she held no claim to me. After all, it cannot be easy raising a child who knows it is superior to its parent.

_But that does not answer the question of my sudden emotional upwelling._

There were many times in my childhood that it could have stemmed from. Even now, it is not apparent when it happened outright. I never really thought anything of the mutual liking I held for her in my young years. So what did bring on the shift in my opinion?

Strike two.

_"Shuichi, how was school?" Shiori asked her son from the sink where she stood doing the day's dishes as he walked into the house, discarding his school bag in the hall by the door._

_"Fine, it was fine, Kaasan," he replied brightly, slipping into the kitchen. "I just need to get a can for art," he added, heading towards their reach-in pantry._

_"Alright dear, hold on. I'll get you one in a moment," she replied, still standing over the sink, busily immersed in the task of drying the day's flatware ._

_"No, don't worry Kaasan; I can get it myself," he called, pulling out a stepstool from the bottom shelf of the pantry and setting it before him resolutely._

_In a mechanical process, he stepped up onto the stool and began to rummage through the shelves. As he searched, balancing himself on his tiptoes to look higher, his center of balance weakened and the stepstool holding him teetered dangerously. He paid no mind and reached for a can he had spotted. His sudden movement for the can overbalanced the stool, and it tipped backwards, taking him with it. In an attempt to steady himself, he brushed against a stack of china, and in the sudden friction of his jerked, falling movement, they too came crashing down._

_The plates hit the tiled floor and shattered. The subsequent noise caused his mother to turn. That was when she saw her son falling, and the plates lying in pieces on the floor._

_"Shuichi!" Shiori yelled frantic, abandoning the sink and running forward to her son, breaking his fall only inches away from the shattered bits of porcelain on the floor beneath him._

_As he recovered himself from the abruptness of the incident and sat up stunned, he saw his mother kneeling on the floor crouched over, in a pool of steadily growing blood._

_She looked up at him, a weak smile on her lips, her eyes glazed over, and unfocused. "Are you alright, Shuichi?" She asked hoarsely._

_That's when he noticed she was holding her arms._

_Blood._

_The gashes on her arms sent crimson flowers blossoming upon the white-washed linoleum. He was speechless. She had saved him, and she had suffered, readily. She had saved him with such a willingness that it shocked him into silence and he just sat there, staring at her._

_Eventually, the gashes healed._

_But the scars remained._

That day changed everything anew.

I remember well the incident, because that day she taught me affection.

_But affection, and the emotion that now binds me to this place are entirely different._

This is true. Even as Youko, I had known affection. Perhaps not the sort that falls automatically to mind, but affection nonetheless. As Youko, I knew affection — of camaraderie — to my partners. Yomi, and Kuronue, for example. Affection is not what keeps me here, however; just as it was not what bound me to Makai.

No, what has kept me here — _and keeps me here still _— is a far stronger emotion.

_**Love.**_

Strike three.

_The eve of his fifteenth birthday, and he was sitting in his mother's bedroom silently, holding her hand as she coughed and choked until her breath had finally been robbed, leaving her wheezing, struggling for breath, and exhausted._

_"I'm sorry Shuichi, this was supposed to be your day," she whispered softly, earnestly apologetic, opening her tired, strained eyes to look up at her son sadly._

_He shook his head firmly. "No, don't be foolish, Kaasan. Your health is more important to me than any birthday."_

_"Shuichi..."_

_"No, Kaasan, don't say anything more, just rest. You have to get better. We are all we have." He shook his head again and squeezed her hand gently as he stood up. "I'll make us some tea; that will make you feel better," he told her, stepping out the door silently._

_She just closed her eyes, allowing a tear to slip down her gaunt cheek._

_He hurried around the kitchen making their tea — a special tea made with herbs from Makai; they had marvelous pain relieving qualities, he drank it himself after being wounded on missions for Koenma — his mind buzzing in anger. Why hadn't he noticed how gravely ill she had become? Why hadn't he even bothered making life easier for her? Why hadn't he done something more? Anything more? He blamed himself; she was suffering a terminal illness, and it was because of him._

_Once he had two cups of steaming tea sitting on the small lacquer tray he was to bring up for her, he stopped. Considering for a moment, he turned to the pantry. After a moment of searching, he found what he had sought: a bottle of Brandy._

_He faintly remembered, any of the few times he had fallen ill in his childhood, she had always made him tea with a bit of Brandy in it. It always worked for him, now the least he could do was return the favor._

_He poured a small amount into the cup of scalding liquid and stirred it, watching idle puffs of steam come forth from the cup._

_Replacing the bottle of Brandy carefully, he hurried back up to his mother's bedroom, carrying the tea with him._

_When he returned to her room, she had assumed a sitting position, propping herself up with the help of several therapeutic pillows she had been given at the clinic to help ease joint pain. He handed her one of the cups, warning her to be careful since it was hot; sipping on his own only slightly, his viridian eyes lingering almost pleadingly on her frail figure._

_"Is something the matter, Shuichi?" she asked bringing her teacup up to her mouth and drinking deeply, regarding him with eyes glazed in concern.._

_"It is nothing," he mumbled slowly, averting his gaze from her, looking instead into the hollow depths of his tea cup, the herbal dregs spiraling on the surface of the liquid in a sort of dance._

_She placed her cup on the nightstand beside her bed and pushed herself up a little straighter. "Shuichi, look at me," she said, her voice gentle, yet holding a demanding tone._

_He looked, reluctantly._

_"What's the matter?"_

_He sighed. "Kaasan, if something was wrong... You would tell me, wouldn't you?" he asked quietly, his eyes lingering on her._

_"If something was wrong?" she repeated slowly, more to herself than to him._

_"Yes, if something was wrong," he parroted, nodding._

_She smiled. "Oh, Shuichi, you have nothing to worry about," she cooed, bringing one of her hands to his cheek, brushing his hair, which had grown a great deal in the foregone year, out of his eyes. She moved her thumb in a small circle around his temple. _

_"You shouldn't worry so much."_

_"But Kaasan, your health..."_

_"Shh...No more of that," she said firmly. "You'll see, by tomorrow, I'll be well again. We all get sick; it will pass." She brought herself up to him slowly and tilted his head down, kissing him lightly on the forehead. "Now go on, let me rest, and tomorrow you'll see. I'll be well again."_

_He nodded, and got up slowly, his eyes remaining uncertainly on his mother. _

_"Kaasan?"_

_"What is it, Shuichi, dear?"_

_"I love you."_

_The words were foreign to him; they fell from his tongue bitterly, and he felt awkward saying them, but he felt he had to._

_Her health had been in a steady decline as of late, and he knew she put on a strong act for his sake. He knew she was ill, but she refused to admit it to him, causing the feeling of guilt to grow within him, for the simple fact that he hated that she could not be honest with him about her condition Had he done something wrong; done something to warrant her lack of trust?, he had to wonder._

_At the same time, however, there was a certain peace that came over him as he said the words. Perhaps because he knew the woman wanted to here them, and knew well that in the fifteen years she had raised him, she hadn't once._

_She was quiet for a brief moment, undoubtedly struck by her son's rare display of emotion, let alone affection. "I love you too, Shuichi," she replied after a moment, her voice broken by the threat of tears._

_He smiled tiredly, a small smile that only turned his lips slightly upward at the corners, and walked out the door without a second thought, feeling accomplished, and slightly redeemed._

_As his mother had said, she was up again in the morning; her health improved enough to allow her movement outside the bed, which she had been confined to in lengthening stretches in recent weeks. Hatanaka was at her side already, as he made his way to leave for school, relieved that she was on her feet again._

_He went to school, his spirit at ease._

_But as the day wore on, his spirit's ease wore off, being replaced by a nagging urgency, much like he had experienced when his father had died, years ago. The familiarity of the feeling, and what it foresaw did not sit well with him._

_By the time the school day ended he was more than happy to bolt out of the doors and return home as quickly as his Youko speed and mortal legs and feet would allow._

_His feeling had been right, again._

_Too right._

_When he got home, pulling himself up the foyer, Hatanaka was standing next to the door, regarding him with an expression of mixed distress and relief._

_"Hi, eh... Shuichi..." he began nervously, fidgeting uncomfortably._

_"Hello," he replied indifferently, looking to get into the house to check on his mother. He passed Hatanaka and was just about to open the door when his soon-to-be step-father spoke again._

_"Shuichi, come with me. Your mother's been hospitalized."_

_He froze, his hand lingering on the doorknob as his mind registered what he had just heard. He felt the blood drain from his face in a reaction of human panic very unfamiliar to him._

_"The hospital?" he asked, keeping his face neutral, his voice calm, despite the storm that was welling inside of him, and the sudden nauseous feeling that had stolen over him._

_Hatanaka nodded. "Come on..." he motioned towards the car sitting on the curb. "Let's go."_

_"The hospital..." he mumbled again, for lack of anything better to say. His mind, usually so clear and focused, was suddenly too lost in a shroud of fog to produce a reasonable thought, much less a tangible sentence. Or, more profoundly still to his current mindset, an entire string of sentences._

_The trip to the hospital was silent._

_What was there to say, after all? Neither of them had reason to talk._

_Once they got there, Hatanaka immediately went in to see her; he just sat outside her door, forcing himself to find peace in the hard, cold, plastic hospital chair that he had settled upon. The smell of the IV drips, disinfectants, and general clean smell of the hospital, and more distractingly, the lingering smell of death that clung to everything like cheap perfume, were annoying him, causing his sensitive nose to burn. But there were more pressing matters at hand: his mother's health, her current condition, and her chances of recovery..._

_After a seeming eternity, a middle-aged man in a white overcoat approached him, the look on his face hard to read. "You must be Shuichi, Ms. Minamino's son, yes?" he asked._

_He nodded, momentarily lost for words and too distracted to even be bothered by the doctor's stupid question when it was obviously rhetorical._

_"Her condition is critical, although stable for the moment. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but she doesn't have long. 12 weeks at most, at this rate."_

_At his continued silence, the doctor nodded solemnly and turned, leaving him sitting there in the uncomfortable chair, senses burning from the smells, and his mind numb._

_Silence._

_"Shuichi, your mother... She — she wants to see you." Hatanaka's voice cut through the silence._

_He stood up and walked into the room, only partially aware of what was happening, his mind too clouded to come to grips with the situation._

_He was sitting at her bedside stiffly, dutifully, but blatantly refusing to look at her._

_"Shuichi...?" she asked; she sounded tired, older than she actually was._

_"Yes, Kaasan?" he mumbled; he kept his eyes resolutely on the gray-black carpet lining her hospital room. He knew that if he looked at her — into those unconditionally loving eyes of hers — it would break his heart. And, he could not do it._

_"Please, look at me..." she asked pleadingly; she sounded on the verge of tears._

_He did not want to look at her; did not want to look at anything anymore._

_She sighed. "Shuichi, I'm so sorry, I know you're angry; you have every right to be_—_"_

_"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked suddenly, his voice cracking thinly, eyes clouding and making the carpet in his line of vision blur._

_Of course, he had known long ago that she was ill. But the fact that she could not bring herself to tell him herself bothered him._

_It __**hurt**__ him._

_"Why?" he asked again, blinking angrily and shaking his head in distress._

_"I didn't need you to worry about me," she reasoned softly. "It isn't your job to worry about me. It's my job to take care of, and worry about you. Not the other way around." She sighed then, a completely deflated, miserable sound. "Lately, it hasn't felt like I've been doing my job... I'm sorry, Shuichi..."_

_She did sound sincerely sorry, and for that he was glad. But she also sounded pathetic — weak — and the subdued Youko in him bristled in disgust at the display._

_A brief moment of anger flared inside of him at her words, a rush of white hot loathing surging through his veins. She was being selfish — stupidly selfish. Keeping all of this from him just because she felt her motherly duties were at stake? How could she have been so stupid?_

_"Your health is _— _always has been, always will be _— _more important than your duties, Kaasan," he hedged stiffly, still refusing her plea for eye contact. Then, he sighed deeply, his voice taking on a quiet tone again. "Even if I would have had to take care of you myself... It would not matter. Kaasan… you are all I have… I can't lose you..."_

_Say it! Say it! Say it! His conscience screamed. __**Say it!**_

_"...Kaasan... I — I love you..."_

That had been it. I am certain that that had been the moment; the moment I sealed my own Fate. I have hardly ever uttered those words again, and certainly never since then, with such sincerity as I had on that day.

She had — _has still _— sacrificed so much for me. How could I not say it? In light of the circumstance, how could I not mean it?

_I did mean it, which is why I stole the mirror._

The Forlorn Hope. I had stolen it. Yes, partially to save my mother — mostly to save her — but also to redeem myself. She had given up so much for me to grow up well-rounded in a one-parent household, and I thought that, just once, I could give her back at least some of what she had given me.

_And, I suppose I had._

I stretch, pushing back into my mattress, my gaze falling idly on the ceiling.

_But, just because I have redeemed myself does not mean that I do not still feel guilty._

I am living a lie after all. I have lived this very lie since my rebirth as Minamino, Shuichi. And it has caused me to wonder... Do I have the right?

_What ever gave me the right in the first place?_

I had no right to take the unborn child's body as my own.

Did that stop me?

_No._

I have no right to let the woman who sees me as her own, loves me as her own, keep believing I am her son.

Is that stopping me now?

_No._

I had no right to cheat death that night only to continue living a life to which I have no claim.

Did that stop me? Is it stopping me now?

_No._

_Not yet._


	3. 2: False Hopes

**A Wilting Rose**

--

_Part I: Reasons_

_The fickle and vain gaze upon it enviously;The distraught see it as a sign of hope.Yet, all are blinded to the truth:It is no more than a façade.It is not real, and never will be.It represents merely a lie;One to which all turn blind eyes, and deaf ears,For they know nothing.Nothing, except their selfish desires.The glass rose means no more to them,Than that which they do not have._

I find myself staring lazily out of my bedroom window with little intent, watching the cherry blossoms dance on the breeze without a care in the world; the birds chirp in merriment. The street my window watches over is empty, all but for one woman walking along the sidewalk, a young child — too young to be in school quite yet — clinging to her hand. They seem perfectly happy and content.

Everything seems so perfect and utterly relaxed. So at peace. So right. Well, everything outside of this room seems right at least I muse, ever the cynic. Of course, everything — _everyone _— except myself has the right to experience the peace of these times. They live their lives fully, happily; they have every right in the world.

_Whereas I have no more right being alive than I do being dead; no more right enjoying this life than deploring it._

It is true, after all: this meager existence I have eked out for myself is one of naught but lies. What right do I have to be here when my very being here is on solely the basis of those lies?

_I have no right._

But having right, or not having right, regardless, has never stopped me. What do I care if my life is a lie? What do I care that the life I live is not mine to claim?

Simple: I do not.

I do not care. Which is, in itself, ironic when you consider the fact that I am still here. _"I do not care."_ That is another lie to add to my ill-begotten résumé.

The very fact is that I _do, _indeed, care. That in itself has led me to my untimely undoing. That very fact has also been the cause of several of the lies I live behind presently.

_But… Since when do I care about a simple lie?_

The being that I am, the being that I was... Lies were always — _and will always remain _— a natural, everyday part of life. Without lies, and the protection they ultimately provide, one has no guarantee to one's survival. They keep one sheltered and alive. Funny, considering that for all of their vital protection, and despite the integral part they play in maintaining the hollow shadow of my existence I have thrived upon these past few mortal years, they are the very things undoing me now.

An _interesting twist of Fate? Or, perhaps, just another lesson to be learned?_

The entirety of my situation has taken a 360-degree turn around, very much like my overall being, I suppose, considering that I have become a very different entity now than I was in the past. Considering the being that I was, and what that constituted in my life, and taking into account who I am — or pretend to be — now, and what this present life constitutes, is it Fate?

Somehow, I do not think so.

Somehow, I think Enma is just punishing me.

The woman walking the child beneath my window has long since gone. However, the birds' chirping and the gentle tones of the breeze remain. The feeling of resentment within me swells.

_What have I done to warrant this? Haven't I done enough?_

For whatever reason, Enma is punishing me; piling more unwanted obstacles in my path.

_Don't I deserve happiness; what it constitutes?_

I have spent most of my human life repenting for the sins I committed as Youko, the King of Thieves. I have cleared my slate in Reikai and started anew in Ningenkai. Yet, no one is giving me repast, and no one is letting me have the peace I seek.

No one is leaving the past where it belongs...

In the past.

_So, am I to remain haunted by my stunts as Youko? Am I to remain forever in despair?_

For one who never gave a second thought to a life of despair as the great King of Thieves in Makai, the thought plagues me often enough now as a simple ningen. And, it is a none-too-becoming promise, if I am to be honest.

I have tried hard to repent for my sins; tried even harder to go on living a life which to which I am not bound and to which I hold no claims, without showing remorse for it. And most of all, I have tried to turn a fresh leaf, leaving Youko behind forever.

Leaving everything behind forever.

_But, despite my efforts, I cannot — will not— succeed. Youko is my past, and always will be. _

_I have no power to change that._

And no one will allow me to forget that. That is just the problem.

And, I continue to tell myself to live with the fact, because I knew from the start that my life would be this way. Naïvely, I continue to tell myself that perhaps one day in the future not so far from sight, things will change.

_Yet now, here I am, coming undone, because of the very thing I told myself to live with._

Perhaps it is guilt, because I know I have no right to be among the living. Maybe it is resentment, because I made this choice. Maybe I am just tired. Tired of trying to appease myself, and do right in the eyes of others, when despite my best and greatest efforts, I will always fall short.

Maybe I am just tired of trying...

_Maybe I am tired of living a double-life._

I fall back onto my bed again, frustrated. The crimson sheets ripple angrily around me, contouring against the sharp angles of my tired body. _Why do I do this to myself?_

_Why did I ever choose to put up with it?_

Why? Because I am naïve — incredibly naïve. So much so, in fact, that I brought myself to believe I could ever do right in this life.

I sigh, my eyes darting tiredly to the alarm clock, sitting perched on my bookshelf. 1:30. Time trudges on despairingly slowly when depression fogs the mind, thick and sickly, clawing at the nerves and dulling the senses.

_A mistake on my part…_

I realized a long while ago that I have no right to any of what I claim. I have no right to life, no right to death. No right to lie simply for carrying on with this shallow and pitiful excuse for an existence.

_Maybe I can redeem myself eternally, repenting for all the mistakes I have made here, in this life._

As much as I have done in an attempt to right the wrongs I committed back then, a single option has always escaped me. An option that has been, for many, an ever-present open door. I just never thought to consider opening that particular door.

_Yet, it has always been there, plain as day. So, why haven't I ever given it another thought?_

Because I thought I could live with my life the way it was, and the way it is now. Because I thought I was doing right by living this lie. Because I thought that things would change, that people would change...

They have not.

So much for that hope.

_So much for any of my hopes, really. Again, I was foolish enough to believe things would change; things would turn in my favor. For all my trying, for all my pretty hopeful ideals..._

_I am still no better off than I was before._

_So what is the point of going on, when this life is progressing no better than the last?_

Really, there is no point. I am not so sure certain that there ever was, actually.

_So, what __**is**__ the point?_

There is not one.

_So, what is stopping me?_

I have to think about this.

What _is_ stopping me? Shiori, perhaps. But, even now... After all the times I have lied to her, and undoubtedly will continue doing so, after all of it is said and done, what right do I have to continue lying?

I had no right then.

I have no right now.

It would be for the best if I did it — opened that eternally available door. After all, in the long run, I will only end up hurting the woman more.

_If that rings true, why do I still continue thinking of staying with the woman? Why do I brood over my choice, doubt my instincts?_

I do not really know why.

Lately, it seems, I do not know much of anything. To stay with the woman, go on living this life... Or leave, simply.

_Honestly, I am tired of thinking about it._

I am tired of it all. Tired of the lies, of the double-life. All of it. There seems to be no end to the lies I live in, and there seems to be no more truth in any of what I do, and it tires me. Because in an indecisive life like this, there is no peace.

Maybe that is what Enma is trying to tell me...

_Perhaps, for the peace I seek, for the solace I so deeply desire, maybe I must simply give it all up._

Recently, with the way things have been going, my humanity seems a small price to pay for the comfort I seek.

_That must be the answer, then._

But my humanity is one thing.

My life is another.

_So, it must not be the answer._

_What is then? _I wonder dully, closing my eyes to drown out the sea of white flooding my vision. I find my senses enveloped in a shroud of black, and somehow, it is soothing. Unnerving, but soothing. And, I do not understand it.

_Black, so unending, so ongoing... So utterly empty._

Empty? Is that it? Is that why I feel as I do now; because I feel empty?

I wonder. It is true that, lately, I have been pondering my existence, and the reason as to why I insist on remaining here. Yet, I have failed to find a tangible reason. Is it truly emptiness that has stolen in over my heart, my mind?

But how can I be empty? I have the unwavering love of my mother, friends who I can count on for anything — who would die for me without a moment's hesitation if occasion called , a decent stepfather and brother, and top grades in my school. How can I _possibly_ feel empty?

_No one really knows me; sometimes I wonder if I even know myself. It is no wonder I feel so alone._

_So empty…_

But I have never before cared whether anyone knew me; for the most part I prefer that they do not. Why the sudden change of heart?

_Because I am not the same person I was back then. I am no longer Youko Kurama._

True, I most definitely am not the same, and neither are my views on life, or my emotions.

_Again with that word. Emotions. They did this to me. _

Human emotions have taken hold of my heart, and somehow, it feels like a vile disease; something I would rather be rid of. Because, while not all emotions are bad, per se, some are.

And it is the one ruining me.

Resentment.

The fact that I cannot find peace within the very realm I force myself to reside in — and actually be a sentient part of — causes me to resent my choice. And I — _for once, rightfully feel I _—have every right to resent it. My choice has marked me for the worse here.

Marked me as an outcast.

_So, maybe peace is not what I seek, then..._

Well, now that I think about it, my life is peaceful; on a broad scale, I have no reason to truly complain. So, I must be seeking something else.

_That which is the trait I lack, is why I resent my choice. And I lack understanding from this world for what, or who, I am..._

_So what I am seeking must be..._

_Acceptance._

If I think about it — which I really do not even have to do thoroughly — I realize that I do not have acceptance, and I know that I never have. But also, I realize that I do not want it; I never have. People's opinions of me have always mattered very little to me, whether it was as Youko, or as who I am now. So acceptance cannot be it.

Neither is peace.

I am empty. Perhaps that is the sole reason. But, it seems such a small, trivial reason. That cannot be it; not entirely at least. It is impossible.

_I am tired of the lies, of the secrets, of constantly having to deceive everyone._

That is it; maybe I _am_ just tired. And, I know just the cure for being tired…

_Sleep._

_Eternal sleep._


	4. 2: Drowning

_**A Wilting Rose**_

_--_

_Part II: Drowning_

_It exists plainly, simply;Yet it isn't alive, and it never will be.Cloaked in lies and deceits,It is no more than an act.Nothing but a cheap imitation.It stays in this time without reason to leave,And has no reason to stay.It is just here._

A soft tapping noise pulls me from the realm of unconsciousness I had graciously accepted earlier, and I open my eyes slowly, half-expecting to be blinded by the flood of white that would greet me when I woke. Surprisingly enough, I am not blinded at all. Apparently, in the time I have spent in my reverie, the sun has already slipped well past my window, dimming the room lightly, and making it more favorable to my sensitive eyes. I push myself into a sitting position as another gentle knock taps rhythmically across my door.

"Yes?" I call stretching, arching my back elegantly, grimacing as my vertebrae crack in protest.

My mother opens the door and walks in slowly, shutting it behind her gently. "How are you feeling, Shuichi, dear?" she asks, smiling at me and crossing my room slowly, each step taken full of measure and purpose.

I turn and rise gingerly to stand at the edge of my bed, and turn to smooth my hands across the sleek, cool sheets. Straightening the covers neatly into place again,

I answer mother's query with my back turned to her. "Much better, Mother. I think the few hours of sleep I allowed myself really aided me."

"You're sure you're feeling better now?" she asks tensely. I hear the worry in her voice, and I feel her take a step closer to me, her presence suddenly becoming much more prominent in the small room.

I turn to her, having finished with my sheets and feeling that I have straightened them satisfactorily. "Yes, Mother. Do I have reason not to be sure?" I ask politely, trying to ignore the obviously concerned look in her warm eyes.

"Oh, it's nothing, dear," she sighs tiredly; her exhaustion is palpable and deep, the sigh comes from her very bones, from deep within her soul. "It's just that if you're feeling better, you won't have to miss any more school."

"Of course, Mother," I reply lightly. "So, to what do I owe this visit?"

"Oh, right." She laughs lightly, her sweet alto dancing softly around the room. "Well, dinner is done. I wanted to come tell you, as you've been asleep all afternoon since I got home. I thought you might be hungry."

I nod marginally. To be honest, I am not terribly hungry; I have lost much of my appetite in the past few days. But, I do not wish to cause mother any more undue stress by turning her down.

"Of course, Mother. You are correct in your assumption. Shall I escort you downstairs, then?" I ask heading towards the door, holding my arm out for her.

She laughs again — truly such a heavenly sound to my ears — and swats my arm down. "Don't let me kid you, Shuichi, darling. I'm not a lady worthy of your gentlemanly disposition," she insists as she follows me out of the room shutting the door behind her.

My stepfather and brother are already seated at their respective spots around the dinning room table when mother and I join them. My stepfather smiles warmly at me in greeting as I take my seat next to mother, and I nod to him in acknowledgment. Shuuichi gives me a small wave and a bright ear splitting grin, which I return with a small smile and another respectful nod.

For the first few minutes of the meal we all remain silent as dishes get passed around and we fill our plates. Then, once the scraping of dishes and plates has settled, casual conversations take over the peace. I pick up snippets of them here and there, but make no effort to include myself in any of them.

"So, how was your day, Shuuichi?" mother asks, turning to gaze at him.

Her look is one that leaves a person feeling so special, so utterly important; as though he is the only person on the planet. Like she has only eyes and ears for him. And she is sincere, which makes her all the more amazing.

"Same as usual," he replies, swallowing a mouthful of rice and shrugging in an offhand, casual sort of way typical of someone his tender age. "Just normal school stuff."

"School stuff?" his father, Hatanaka, asks incredulously, shaking his head in something like mock-astonishment. "Isn't there something they teach you at that place? Not just _stuff_?"

He laughs easily, scooping up another heap of steamed rice with his chopsticks. "No, not really," he supplies, shoveling the food into his mouth again with vigor.

"Well, I can't say I learned anything at work either, don't feel bad," Hatanaka replies shrugging, looking laughingly sympathetic.

"Not true," Mother chides in, her voice rising in a sing-song way typical of her when she is in a joking mood. "You learned how to burn noodles!" She laughs kindly and turns to Shuuichi, poking her chopsticks in the opposite direction, towards his father. "He can't cook Souba noodles, Shuuichi," she grins, smiling with school girl-like grace.

He holds in a laugh, almost choking on a bit of rice. Hatanaka looks good-naturedly embarrassed and shoots a friendly glare towards mother. I just sit at the table silently, picking half-heartedly at my plate. I just cannot find my appetite.

_I should not really be sitting here._

I idly move the food on my dish around in tight circles with my chopsticks, wondering why I am sitting here. I am not hungry in the slightest bit and the conversation hovering about the table concerns me in no way. There is no reason why I cannot just excuse myself politely, and retire for the night.

_So, why do I remain seated then?_

Because it would be rude, I tell myself. And it would worry mother even more than she is already worried about me. And frankly, she has been doing enough of that lately. I do not want to burden her more.

_Besides, I should wait awhile longer._

Patience _is_ a virtue after all.

And so, I resign myself to wait out the entirety of the meal, whether I actually have reason to or not. I pacify myself by listening to the conversation happening around me, random and meaningless as it is. Even if not directed to me, it still passes the minutes, however slow they may dredge on.

"At least I don't burn water, Shiori," Hatanaka teases motioning to her with a wave of his chopsticks, his whole arm waving them, as though to punctuate his meaning.

"You can burn water, Mom?" Shuuichi asks laughing.

"I'm telling you that pot was possessed, I swear," she defends herself shaking her head.

"Right… And that's why the whole place almost went up in smoke?" Hatanaka smiles.

"Well, you've no right to complain; it's still standing, isn't it?" She quips back.

Their conversation seems so pointless. Actually, it is rather uninteresting. But I will still sit here patiently waiting for the evening to come to a close.

_I do not know why I bother. I will not hear what I seek._

I am in the mind to forget it; I would rather not waste time sitting here without cause. I have better, more important things to do. And, if not more important, then at least more gratifying.

_Besides, I will not be accepted in the conversation. I will not be acknowledged._

I make a slow move to push away from the table. Suddenly — perhaps my sense of spatial reasoning has failed, I do not know, but time seems to freeze, motion stops, and all I am aware of is mother's eyes probing, watching me. She has fallen silent, abandoning the lively conversation that she had been a part of moments before, and glances at me. As I said, my reasoning must have abandoned me — the glance she casts holds my gaze no more than a passing second, yet it seems an eternity in waiting to me.

_I will sit it out anyway, _I decide tiredly_._

Dinner tonight seems to drag on far longer than any other previous to it. Honestly, I do not think I can make it through the meal, cannot possibly hold out for one more minute. But, as with everything else, it does come to an end, eventually, and I can finally excuse myself politely from the table.

My room is dark when I reenter it, and I must turn on my light. When the false lighting seeks to offer me no solace, I turn to my window, hoping that natural light will.

I lean out the window, propping myself up on my elbows, and peer out over the outer ledge. The cool night breeze washes over my face and whips red locks into my eyes and over my cheeks. I focus on the sun, slowly slipping behind the horizon, painting any nearby sky in placid tones of red, with detached attention, glazed eyes, and let my mind wander.

_I really do not belong here._

From the way the three of them — my mother, Hatanaka, and Shuuichi — had held such a nonchalant chat over dinner, without so much as mention of me, it supports my view perfectly.

_I am better off gone._

The woman would assuredly lead an easier life herself if she had one less mouth to feed, especially when that extra mouth currently does not eat what she sets in front of it.

_But what would be the way?_

There seems no reason for me to stay: I just get in the way. Or rather, I just should not stay because I do not act like I am ever here to begin with.

Could I leave? Simply go to school one morning and never return? Oh, but where would I go? Everywhere I could go I would find myself being brought promptly back here.

_Perhaps I should just end it._

I could just get it over with; spare myself the monotony of dealing with all of this.

_But could I truly do that?_

The prospect looming before me does not bother me in the slightest. It soothes me, if anything.

_For myself, yes, without regrets, would be no problem._

I am not so certain that the prospect would be so easily accepted by everyone else, however.

_I cannot do that to Shiori._

I think I would be better off never existing — or never having existed at all, for that matter — in the first place. Though, I suppose it is a little too late for that now.

My thoughts are disturbed by the familiar gentle knocking pattern of my mother.

"Come in, Mother," I call, turning away from my window and the sunset; away from the open space and uncharted freedom it offers, to face the door, and mother instead; towards the door that will lay forever locked behind me, keeping me forever trapped in a reality to which I do not belong.

She walks in, shutting the door behind her soundlessly, repeating the same process she had earlier this evening. Then sits herself down on my bed, motioning that I should come beside her, which I do.

"Shuichi," she begins gently. "How are you?"

"How am I?" I repeat, not really understanding her question or her intent as I lower myself comfortably beside her on my futon, thinking that I will once again have to smooth the sheets tonight.

She nods slowly, her eyes focusing on me; there is something haunted about those eyes — that look. Something very familiar to me, yet I cannot place it. "Yes — how are you in school? At home? Is everything all right?"

Silence.

_**No**__._

_Everything __**is not **__all right. I __**am not**__ fine at home; I __**do not**__ belong at home. School is fine, except that everyone either hates me or loves me to an extent so unprecedented that I wish they would hate me as well._

_I __**am**__** not**__ fine; I __**do not know **__what I am._

"Yes, Mother, I am fine; very well, really. School is fine: my grades are superb. And, of course, I am fine at home. Do I have reason not to be?" I ask, trying my best to sound conversational and engaged.

_I thought I was tired of the constant lies I lived behind? Surprising how easily they still spill from my lips despite that._

"I see…" she begins quietly. Her next words come out slowly; with difficulty, as if she is having trouble putting her thoughts into words. "Then, why have you been missing so much school lately…?"

I blink, startled by the question — the last I was expecting. "I just have not been feeling well; the weather has not been all too pleasant lately, has it?" I supply hesitantly.

"Shuichi, please…" she replies sadly, her eyes focusing on me with a wounded, teary look. "Please don't lie to me."

My jaw clenches because if I were to let the muscles move of their own accord, I would be gaping unabashedly at mother right now. "Of course I am, Mother. Why else would I stay home?"

"I know you're not sick," she interjects, waving my blatant lie away as easily as she would swipe an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "You never get sick for such lengths of time. Or this often."

I try not to stare at her with this revelation, but my eyes do not seem to want to blink. My voice crawls into the back of my throat and try as I might, my tongue will not form the words I need to steer the conversation into more shallow water. Knowing I have been caught, effectively, in the middle of a lie, a knot of shame wells in my stomach and I avert my gaze, staring dazedly towards my window and the pinprick stars that are trying valiantly to outshine the moon.

"I've just been letting you stay home, Shuichi," she explains quietly, her voice betraying neither disappointment not anger. "I know something is bothering you. What's the matter?" She puts a comforting hand on my thigh, squeezes in gentle reassurance.

I close my eyes, trying to get that expression out of my mind; I just can't stand to see her like this, least of all when I know I am the reason for it, the cause of all her undue suffering. I know she will not let it show in her voice or on her face, but I know here well enough to know that she is disappointed in me, and perhaps rightfully worried.

I sigh knowing all I can do is tell her the truth now, and begin to speak without turning to look at her. "School just bores me, Mother. My grades should be proof of that. I am not accepted there; or I am overly accepted. Neither of which is something I find helpful," I concede slowly, reluctantly.

Suddenly, I feel slightly better. For once I have not lied to her, and the weight it lifts from my shoulders, like a lead brick being unfastened from about me, is a surprising relief. But, her expression is not exactly the most reassuring.

_And why would it be? What I told her is probably not what she wanted to hear._

"I see," she replies quietly, her voice suddenly tired. Then, her voice drops another octave. "And what about here; are you happy here?" I can hear the anxiousness in her voice.

Silence again.

_This is unexpected. I have never been asked a question that has made me feel so stupid and lousy all at once_. _I do not know what to say._

"Of course I am happy here, Mother," I finally assure her after a painfully quiet moment.

She still seems disbelieving, however, as she asks, "Are you sure?"

"I have you, Hatanaka, and Shuuichi. A wonderful and loving family if ever there was one. Perhaps school falls short and leaves me unfulfilled, but I assure you, Mother, I am happy here. How can I not be?"

"It's just…" She sounds on the verge of tears, and it tugs at my heart painfully having to see her like this.

"Mother, please—" I voice gently, finally turning to look at her. I shift to face her entirely and give her the best smile I can muster, circumstances considered. "Please do not cry."

At this, she laughs slightly and wipes at the corners of her eyes. Then she sighs. "It's just that you've become so withdrawn — so secluded recently." Her voice breaks off shakily, and I wonder if she will truly keep the tears at bay. "It seems like you don't want to have anything to do with the rest of the family. It just worries me…"

"Mother," I begin, laying my hand over hers gently and squeezing it in reassurance — though honestly, the warmth of her small, frail hand in my own is more a comfort to me than my hand on hers probably is to her. "I assure you that all is well. Of course I want to be part of the family — how could you think otherwise?"

_I am lying again; they just do not seem to want to stop flowing off of my lips._

"You know me, Mother. I have never been very social, that is all. You have no reason to worry," I assure her firmly, my voice more confident than I am feeling.

_I cannot stop them; they flow like water in a stream, steady and unobstructed it is so natural. I am so tired of the very lies I live behind, yet I do absolutely nothing to stop them from coming._

She nods, laying her other hand over mind and squeezing it gently. "I know, I know…" she mumbles. "But just remember: I love you…"

My heart beats painfully in my chest for doing this to her. How can I be so selfish as to even have considered abandoning her? What kind of son am I? A sick wave of guilt and nausea writhe in my stomach, and I lower my eyes to the carpet beneath my bare feet. I cannot stand to see her like this.

"You mean more to me than you could ever know, Shuichi, and I — I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you…" she continues on quietly, her voice threatening tears again.

_How can I do this to her? How? What gives me the right?_

"I know, Mother, I know…" I reply softly, closing my eyes tightly, clamping my eyelids shut and with them, shutting down my higher reasoning, willing myself to truly believe her. Yet, I am deaf to her words.

She sighs. "Yes, all right." Slowly, she lifts her head to look at me, and I have to force myself to look briefly up at her, and resist the urge to look away. She gives a weak smile, gently brushes the bangs from my eyes, and plants of soft kiss on my forehead. "Good night, then." She stands and heads to the door, my gaze falling guiltily back upon my carpet. She turns back to me once more, standing half in my room, half in the hallway. "Sweet dreams. "

Then she is gone, leaving me to sink back into my pit of guilt and self-loathing.

_I cannot do it. I cannot leave her; cannot abandon her._

I do not want to hurt her — not any more than I already have.

I _cannot_ leave her.

_But it is not right for me to continue lying to her._

If I do not want to leave her, I have little choice but to, I fear.

_There has got to be a median. Some way we both can win._

I am not going to hurt the woman any more than I have already, but I need to appease myself as well. No longer can I live this life solely for the sake of those around me.

_There has got to be something, anything. Any way we can both win._

_As I have learned over the course of my life — human and demon alike — when you do not like either of the two choices thrown before you, go with the third…_

Make your own.

_If only I knew what that was…_


	5. 2: Tempting the Demon

_**A Wilting Rose**_

_--_

_Part III: Tempting the Demon_

_It stands tall and proud in the spotlight,Resented for its beauty,But loved for the self-same reason.Hungry eyes put it on center stage,Yet, again, it is only an imitation.It can never feel the warmth of the lights,Can never feel,Can never truly be._

I wake up to the sound of something tapping on my windowsill rather impatiently; the sharp noise echoes through my mind, coaxing a wince out of me. Opening an eye, I glance towards my window to find a heated-looking fire apparition sitting on my windowsill, his trademark scowl in place. I pull myself from the sheets and stand, stretching as I make my way to where he is undoubtedly waiting for me.

"What brings you here so early?" I ask, smothering a yawn with the back of my hand and I regard him with polite curiosity. I had told him he was always welcome, yet never expected so early in the day.

"About time you woke up," is his clipped response. Then, "Have you seen Yukina lately?" I hear the agitation in his voice — the concise syllables. He is annoyed, obviously. I had best tread carefully.

"Not recently; no," I reply lightly. I cast him a curious glance, fighting back another yawn that has been building in the back of my throat, pressing to be let loose. "You cannot track her with the Jagan?"

He glares at me, his eyes shining over in malice, fire dancing loathingly in their crimson depths. "Would I be asking if I could?"

"True enough," I concede. Currently, I find it is best to keep my end of the conversation down to as few syllables as possible, and as are necessary, because Hiei is clearly not in a pleasant mood.

"Hn." He crosses his arms over his chest, fingers clenching tightly in the folds of the black material, and turns on the windowsill to face me, his jaw taut, teeth probably clenched behind his thin-pressed lips. "Since early this morning I've lost track of her. The Jagan can't pick up on her."

"Surely, she's with Kuwabara. Just find him and you are bound to find her as well," I reason.

"That's another thing," he growls in annoyance, the agitation in his voice spiking at the mention of the '_Oaf's_' name. "I can't find him. I can't find Yuusuke either. You're the only one."

_Now this is curious. Where could all the others have disappeared to?_

"I see," I mumble quietly, thoughtfully. Then, "Well, let us resume this conversation downstairs on the porch, shall we? I would like to get dressed," I add, gesturing at myself and the half-nakedness that I had crawled out of bed with to answer his summons.

That said, I turn from him, and shortly thereafter hear his characteristic '_Hn_' followed by the swish of his cloak, signaling his departure. As I pull on some fresh clothes, my mind races.

_So much for assuming it is another mission. If it were, we would all be together; and surely, Koenma would explain the disappearances. What could have happened to the others? I wonder. And why are Hiei and I the only ones left?_

I hurry down the stairs and utter a hurried good morning to mother in the kitchen before heading out the door to meet with Hiei.

He is sitting perched on the ledge of our porch, his eyes falling over my rose bush. Although his gaze is one of indifference, I know he admires them. For he once, long, long ago, admitted to me that he respected me for the power I have over my plants.

"I am sure there is no reason to worry. Wherever Yukina is, she is undoubtedly safe," I call out to assure him and to signal my arrival, though he is still looking at the roses and not me, so I am not sure he heard me.

"You're probably right," he agrees turning to me with a nod. "But I want to know where she could have gotten to, where my eye won't trace her."

"Honestly, I could not say," I reply, contemplating for a moment. There are very few and far between places that Hiei's Jagan cannot scope out. It is curious to find a place so close to home.

"That makes two of us, then."

Silence ensues, a gentle wind rising between us, catching our loose clothing and sending the seams dancing tightly around our figures.

I walk down the porch and turn to my rose bush, looking it over intensely to assure myself that the blooms are in general good health. I can feel Hiei's eyes on me as I move about them, but make no comment on it and just continue on my way, moving between the bushes silently.

_We are both comfortable in the silence._

As I contemplate the nature of half our teams disappearance and where Yukina might be so that the Jagan will not track her, I come to a startling conclusion. Essentially, Yukina is to Hiei, what Shiori is to me. Not exactly, of course, but the similarities are striking. He and I are virtually in the same predicament.

I straighten myself up, smoothing down the wrinkles the wind has coaxed into my shirt, and turn to Hiei, his gaze following me steadily.

"What is it, Fox?" he asks, eyeing me curiously.

Apparently, the abruptness of my action warrants his suspicions. I suppose they would have warranted my own, had the situation been reversed; it is in our demon natures to be suspicious, even of those closest to us.

I close my eyes in a moment of pensive thought._ How should I word this? _I am not sure. Not really sure I even want to ask this of him. I know Hiei well enough; he will surely laugh at my weakness, scoff and brush of my concerns as trivial. Perhaps it is simply in my best interests to drop this now, before it has a chance to go any farther.

"Well, what is it, Fox?" he asks again, his impatience deepening, rapping his knuckles against the porch ledge.

I open my eyes and meet his probing gaze unflinchingly. "Nothing," I reply shaking my head, deciding to leave well enough alone and exempt myself from his ridicule before the chance arises.

"Liar," he spits, but not venomously. Just stating the fact for what it is. "I can see the question mirrored in your eyes."

I chuckle slightly at my own ignorance; of course Hiei would notice. It is foolish of me to think he cannot read me quite so well. He, who knows me almost as well as I — claim to know — myself.

"Well?" he persists, jumping off of the porch railing and landing in front of me, his cloak billowing out behind him like a liquid shadow, settling slowly back against him as the winds die down.

"Curiously," I begin slowly, acquiescing to his prodding, "How do you manage living?"

"Manage living?" he repeats, the question reflected in his own voice. "I don't think I manage living." After this statement a harsh laugh, bark-like, cuts through the stillness between us. "Manage existing maybe, but not living. Why do you ask?"

"I said curiously, did I not?" I reply shortly, intending to end this quickly.

"You may as well tell me," he hedges on. The expression on his face is one of 'I know you better than that and I know there is more to it than your words suggest.'

I sigh. There is no way I am going to get out of this conversation now. And I cannot — and rarely ever do — win against his stubbornness. I can only move to drop the conversation where we stand. But knowing him as I do, I know he will only pursue the matter until I finally crack.

"You and I are much alike," I begin; conceding to what I know is the inevitable. "That is to say, the circumstances of our existences are alike. The both of us are two different people, but our circumstances are not… They are very much the same, in varying regards."

"I suppose," he agrees. "But, that's nothing I don't know already."

"Yes." I nod offhandedly. "Well, I was wondering how you manage to deal with your life, because I am finding it to be increasingly more difficult to do so with each new dawn."

"You're having difficultly? Don't tell me you've gotten bored with your humanity." He scoffs.

"I have never considered it '_boredom_', actually," I reply. "Rather, tiredness."

"It's the same principle."

"Not exactly." I shake my head in disagreement, to argue his point. "I want to continue living this life; well, I am bound to continue it. I am just tired of it."

"So, you want to leave, but you can't?"

"I am obligated to stay here."

"I warned you, your humanity would prove fatal one day," he reminds me all-too-happily, shaking his head at me and gracing me with a thin smile, the merest upturning of his lips.

_You have no idea how right you were._

"There is bound to be one time when the Fox's perfection cannot measure up," I reply, trying to sound casual, nonchalant. I shrug the words away lightly, ignoring the sting they elicit from my very core.

Hiei stays silent. I watch him with wondering eyes as he turns away from me. "Do you have any idea how much like me you sound?" he mutters, and I hear him give a small chuckle.

"Pardon?" Of course, I know we are similar — to deny such an obvious thing would be repugnant.

"You want to leave but you can't, can you?" he asks quietly, yet still managing to sound entirely matter-of-fact. As a result, the intended question comes out as more of a statement.

I nod, knowing very well that his words are the truth.

"You'd break the woman's heart if you left." He nods in assurance of his words. "You're obligated to stay with her; she's caught your heart. You want to leave, but you know the only way to do that is if she lets go first. The only way she'd do that is if you tell her the truth—"

"You know I cannot do that, Hiei," I cut across him sharply, my voice a dangerous whisper. A ripple of anger courses over my muscles.

I know he had no intention to, but by mentioning the one fault by which I know — just as he knows — I can escape my human imprisonment, he has upset me. Just as the thought — of telling Shiori that I am the Thief of Makai Legend — always does.

"—That you're Youko," he continues on as though I had never spoken. "But you won't do that, will you? Because you fear that she'll reject you. So, you're stuck here: living caught between the lies you've erected, and the shields you've built around yourself for self-preservation."

_You have hit proverbial nail on the head._

I stay silent at his shocking summary of the life I have made for myself. I guess I am far easier to read now then I thought myself to be. Or perhaps, it is just that Hiei knows me too well.

"Think about it…" he continues, his voice growing quiet and reflective almost.

Briefly, he falls silent. I do not know if he has lost his nerve to speak or if he has just become tired of talking — perhaps he feels he has used his allotted amount of syllables for one day. But, to coax him into continuation, I give him a small nod. It seems to work, as slowly he picks up his thread.

"I deal with the same things." He looks at me with hard eyes, but I see the warmth within them. They have softened considerably over the past few years.

"I fail to see how this connects us. You have yet to bring the similarities between us to my eyes."

A scathing look settles on me. "I remain in a realm I hold no ties to merely to protect the one person that I harbor affectionate emotions for: Yukina."

I knew he would liken us through the similarities we hold regarding Yukina and Shiori — I had seen the connection and used it as my incentive to speak in the first place. But even though I know all of this, I listen raptly. Rarely does Hiei expose himself like this to anyone. Doing so now is costing him a great deal, I can tell, which makes it only an all-the-more precious gift.

"She can never know the truth. If she turned from me…" His voice breaks off, leaving him looking awkward for a moment. Then, he shakes his head, eyes closed. "It's better that she sees me as a friend, rather than brother, because it keeps things in perspective without complicating everything."

"I know the feeling," I mumble quietly, to voice my opinion. I am mindful to keep my voice low, however, lest an increased tone discourage him from exposing himself.

"So," he concludes, looking up at me once more. "She doesn't know because I won't say it. And despite this all, it's the one thing keeping me here. For me, it's Yukina. For you, it's the woman — Shiori. But it's the same regardless."

"What you are saying is the truth," I comply. "But, what gives us the right to continue hiding from the inevitable truth? What right do we have to lie to everyone?"

"It's not a right. It's instinct." He replies matter-of-factly.

"Instinct?"

He nods. "Self-preservation. We don't want to hurt ourselves, so we spare ourselves by lying, without regard to those it may hurt otherwise."

"It makes sense," I mumble, nodding slightly. "But what gives us that right? We are not entitled to be here; to live in this world. What gives us the right to, in the first place?"

"We have every right," he replies shortly, his voice rising slightly in annoyance, the beginnings of a twitch working at his eyebrows.

I shake me head firmly. "No. We are different, we have no right."

"Different?" He laughs harshly; it is an almost bark-like sound that echoes on the deadened breeze. "And this is coming from you? Your own diversity has turned against you, Kurama."

"But it is the truth, regardless." I bristle in annoyance at his laugh. My tongue is itching to whip back a nasty, snide comment — something I would have done without a second thought as Youko — but I bite down, my jaw taut, teeth clenched, and hold my voice.

He shakes his head feverishly, like a dog trying to remove water from its flooded ears. "'_Different' _is such a misleading word. Kind of like '_perfect'_."

I flinch at the sound of his voice as he says it. He had raised his tone, sharpened it like a knife edge to drive home the point.

At this moment, I want to turn from him, and his gaze — so probing and deep and unnerving. Or, at the very least, I want to lash out; strike him violently and repeatedly to make my own pain and anger somehow known. I want to do something; anything to show my pain. But, I cannot bring myself to move to do any — or even a single one — of these things.

Then, without warning — without my expecting it — I hear him sigh.

The next thing I know, there is the silver flash of his katana, — the soundless wind gust of the descending blade — and a stinging sensation suddenly pulsing up my left wrist. I glance down at it confused, and notice the delicate paper cut-like wound running over my flesh. A small bubble of blood leaks from the mouth of the wound and trickles down my arm slowly, a thick crawling sensation sweeping down my limb.

I glance at Hiei confused, more curious as to why he had cut me rather than worried that he had, knowing that he could have easily taken my entire arm off without my knowing it.

He looks down at my wrist intensely, his vermillion eyes blazing as they track the flow of blood coursing down my forearm. Then, using his still drawn katana, he unflinchingly pricks himself in the same spot on his respective wrist. I watch — his flesh tears seamlessly as the blade cuts through the delicate tissue like a hot knife through butter; blood pools around the lips of the cut and slowly seeps out to greet my wide, stunned eyes.

But, for the intensity of this display, it does nothing to sufficiently explain a thing. Moreover, it does nothing to lessen my mounting confusion.

Odd, though, I notice after a subdued moment — how from the one small wound on my wrist, it feels incredibly as though my troubles are trickling out right along with the red liquid that sustains this life. I marvel at the feeling: such an intense sense of relief, as though all of my problems are leaving this body as steadily as the blood.

My body goes numb — time freezes, motion stops. It is as though everything other than my self ceases to exist for a time. There is a buzzing in my mind, countless, blurred sounds in the foreground of my thoughts. Words run together thickly, syllables unheard, the sounds meshed together in a thick knot, shrouded in fog; a thick catalyst where my conscious should be.

There is an indescribable peace that comes with being in a catatonic state. Something utterly and unerringly soothing about the complete and total numbness that wholly consumes the soul as the mind shuts down, shutting out external stimuli and centering around one focal, internal point.

And I know — oh, how I know — that my current relief stems from a mortal sin. The steady thrumming of my heart, the tightness in my chest, and the rush in my head all scream in defiance that I should ignore the feeling.

The addiction is a narcotic.

I know.

_But the feeling is of such relief… such immense and infallible pleasure…_

"Idiot Fox," Hiei snaps suddenly, dragging me back to reality.

My gaze shoots mechanically back to Hiei at the snide comment, my wrist momentarily forgotten. He is watching me smugly, with a look of understanding that is readily annoying, and most probably sorely out of place.

"What?" I ask confused. I still do not understand why he has done this to begin with. Nor do I understand why he has so plainly insulted me.

He glances to his wrist, idly dripping blood, as though it is the most natural thing in the world. The flow has almost stopped completely of its own accord, as he made no motion to stop the flow prior. Then, he motions at mine. I stand confused, my eyes instinctively following his gaze — the blood has painted thin streams of red along the contour of my inner forearm muscle.

"Idiot Fox," he mumbles again, before turning from me.

"What?" I repeat, anger slowly getting the best of me. There is a heated, venomous edge to my voice as I mouth, for the second time, my annoyed curiosity.

"We _**are not**_ different. We all have blood, and we all bleed when we get pricked." He glances over his shoulder, his eyes surprisingly soft, and a dim flame glowing from their depths. "Kurama, we are nothing, if not the same."

I remain silent, eyes flying from my wrist, which has stopped bleeding, to his receding figure.

_We are nothing, if not the same…_

I want to call him back to keep him from leaving. But, at the thought, my voice catches in my throat, and I can't bring forth the words I desire to urge him back. I dredge out a sigh, resigned to watching him disappear gradually from my field of vision. A single though resonates through my mind:

_We all bleed…_


	6. 3: Easing the Pain

**Blood Letting**

--

_Part I: Easing the Pain _

_Some think feeling no pain is a blessing;No one wants to feel pain.But they do want to feel—Feel joy, happiness, warmth, and compassion.They envy the glass rose because it can't know pain,But they forget that along with feeling no painIt can also feel no joy, happiness, warmth, or compassion.It cannot feel._

"Shuichi, dear…" My mother's voice startles me back to the present I turn to her expectantly. "There's a boy on the phone called Yuusuke who wants to talk to you."

At her words, I can feel Hiei stop in his tracks and listen intently. She meets me halfway down the porch steps and hands me the phone. Then, she disappears into the house once again. Hiei is at my side within moments of her disappearance, listening. Perhaps this will answer where everyone has disappeared to. He watches me as I answer the phone.

"Hello, Yuusuke. What is it that you need?" I ask casually.

Silence.

"Yes, yes, Hiei is here with me. Why do you ask?"

Silence.

"So, is that why everyone is missing?"

Silence.

"I see. I will tell Hiei and get there shortly, as well. Yes, yes. Of course. Thank you, Yuusuke." I hang up the phone and turn to Hiei; he is looking at me impatiently.

"Well? Where are they all? Why can't I find Yukina?" he snaps impatiently, to the point as ever.

"You cannot find Yukina — or Yuusuke, or Kuwabara — because they are at Genkai's compound. The warding shields block the Jagan's effect. She is fine and with everyone else."

"Why are they all at the old woman's compound?" he hedges, a thoughtful scowl beginning to tug at his lips.

"Because, Hiei—" I stop, momentarily unsure if I wish to voice the words. "—She has died."

The silence that follows the statement is eerie, cold, unnerving. The words seem to hang in the air around our heads, penetrating our thoughts, and then echoing in our empty minds. The vacuum created in my mind, and undoubtedly Hiei's as well, envelops my senses, drowning out logic. Reason lies forgotten.

Utter nothingness remains. It is a most curious sensation.

"So, the old woman finally bought it?" Hiei asks dully, after the silence has crawled on for a few minutes more. His voice is dead, devoid of emotion as usual. But his tone is flat.

He cannot believe it.

_Neither can I, really…_

"It would appear so," I answer, despite the question being rhetorical.

I turn my back to him then, and return inside the house to put the phone back on the receiver without a word. Even if I want to make my voice known, I doubt fully that I can coax a sound past my throat.

"Shuichi, what did he want?" mother asks, poking her head out of the kitchen to look at me, a curious glint lighting the corners of her gentle, perpetually smiling eyes.

A sick, writhing, and utterly painful coil twists in my stomach, bringing with it undesirable nausea. My stomach turns in protest; I feel the bile rise in my throat, senses burning as I fight back the bitter urge I have to wretch. If I open my mouth now, I know I will lose control of my body. So, I resign myself to shaking my head.

"Nothing of consequence, Mother," I grit out between tightly pressed lips. "But I do have to be getting somewhere now. I will see you again tonight," I manage to get out, past the thick knot burning in my throat.

Without waiting for her reply, I head back out the front door, half-expecting Hiei to already have left. But he has not. Much to my surprise, he is still standing in the same spot I had left him. When I join him he looks up at me, his usually expressive vermillion eyes blank.

Without so much as a word spoken between us, I know what to do, as does he. I nod and we both begin the arduous trek to Genkai's compound.

Hiei is silent for the entirety of the trip, and I see no reason to change this. I am too lost in my own thoughts to make even an idle attempt at conversation.

No words can be said between us.

No words need be said between us.

_We are comfortable in our own silence. The other's presence is enough._

Somehow, I just cannot believe it. I am aware that she is — _was —_ old and only human. But I did not think her time would be cut so drastically short. Perhaps this just proves how naïve I have truly become. Thinking that just because someone should not go, does not mean they will not anyway. I know that well, I understand the concept, and I know she is now gone. But knowing she is gone, and willing myself to believe it just yet, is another thing entirely.

_So, I just will not believe it. Not quite yet._

With silence hovering over us like ominous rain clouds, we trek on. Never mind the fact that I am too caught up in my own thoughts to pay much of anything its due attentions, I had not expected to get to her compound in what seemed such a short time. But sure enough, here we are, and here I find myself: standing at the bottom of the long stone stairwell that leads into her dojo, and the main chamber of the temple.

We begin the slow ascent of the stairs, both still silent.

What needs to be said?

What can be said?

_Nothing._

As we stand before the shoji that will grant entrance into the dojo I am fully in the mind to leave. Opening that screen and facing what is on the other side does not suit me and my current interests. I do not want to come face-to-face with the truth. In the moment I consider leaving, my foot actually inches reflexively from underneath me, pulling me a step away from the inevitable.

_I am so used to the lies I live behind that I am afraid of the truth._

_Has it truly become such a foreign thing to me?_

One withering glance from Hiei snaps my better mentality back into control. I let out a deep sigh, winded and dredged from the very core of my soul, and lay my hand over the smooth rice paper screen. Then, whether I want to or not, I push open the screen and step inside the dojo, allowing Hiei to slip in behind me, before sliding the screen closed again.

What I see is not really all-too-surprising. It is no more or less than I expected, really. I look around the chamber, my eyes lingering on each of my companions:

Botan is sitting in a corner, pulled into a tight ball. Her head rests on her knees, a mess of azure hair. And she is crying. Koenma is kneeling beside her, blue robes billowing around his teenage-retained form. His hand is on her shoulder, trying to comfort her, I suppose. Yuusuke is sitting against the back wall, his eyes blankly staring into space, looking like a shell-shocked, lost child. Keiko is sitting beside him quietly, her eyes fixed on the wooden floor, feet tucked under her wilting figure demurely. Yukina is crying into Kuwabara's shoulder in the opposite corner, her quiet sobs floating in an eerie melody around the room. Shizuru is standing against the wall, a cigarette dangling limply in her hand.

I cast a sidelong glance at Hiei; he stands at my side, almost hesitant to move. I sigh again and cross the threshold, approaching the center of the chamber, and the small wooden casket that lies there.

The casket is a small mahogany box, the sides all engraved with an ancient Buddhist Mantra I recognize well: it wishes prosperity and happiness in the afterlife. Behind the casket is a small alter, a picture of her in the center of it. I smile as I recognize the photograph. It is the one taken of all of us shortly before we left Hanging Neck Island after the termination of the Dark Tournament.

I sink to my knees dutifully and bow before her alter deeply. The sticks of incense placed around the base of the alter punish my sensitive nose greatly. Of all the incense that could have been lain out, I cringe, recognizing the scent: Sandalwood. So bitter, vile, and utterly cheap smelling. But, largely, I ignore it, and remain bowed in my present position for a long while, before standing up again. Then, to bid my final farewell, I reach into my hair and retrieve a young rose bud. In a quick manifestation of my ki, I turn the bud into a beautiful, glowing rose and lay it upon the alter along with the other offerings.

_And with that, I say my final farewell._

Afterwards, I retire slowly to an open portion of the far wall and lean against it, allowing myself to slowly fall to the floor. I watch as Hiei approaches the alter as well, and watch him as he bows and pays his respects one last time to the old woman all of us had come to see as a grandmother, a tutor, a friend. When he stands and places his last offering on the alter I cannot help but smile.

I catch the glint of the object.

he small spherical gem object:

A single Hiruiseki.

Then, he too, retreats to an open stretch of wall, in one of the dark, secluded corners of the place.

I close my eyes tiredly. I still cannot believe it. After all we all we have been through, and now she is gone. Gone forever. It does not seem right, morally, that she should be the first among us to leave. Although, in a measure of time, and in regards to Fate's Hourglass, it makes perfect sense. Yet regardless of the rights and wrongs of her passing, one thing remains an undeniable fact: she is a lost entity to eternity.

That is: finality is final. Death is final.

_--_

_He approached the compound nervously, not sure if he should go see the lady inside the ramshackle dojo or not. His mind screamed at him: what if she was not what he expected? What if she could not help him? Would all his planning be for nothing? Would it all go to waste?_

_After a brief moment of considering and gathering up his courage, he headed up the stone steps slowly and faced the rice paper screen at the end of his path with a determined glint lighting his emerald eyes. He pushed the screen aside slowly, and poked his head inside, glancing around the room. An elderly woman was sitting in the center, her back to him, seemingly in meditation._

"_Come on in, Kid, I can sense you're there!" she called snappily, not so much as turning to him within moments of his appearing._

_Shocked, he reluctantly slipped into the spacious, if sparsely furnished, chamber and approached the woman. He bowed to her hesitantly, yet deeply and in obvious respect._

"_Master Genkai," he began nervously, his voice shaking. His nerves were affecting him and throwing off his normally cool, collected disposition. "Might I ask your advice?"_

_She opened an eye and gave him a half-cocked smile, a mischievous smile. "Sure thing, __**Youko**__."_

_At her words he pulled himself bolt upright. His eyes focused on her, wide and surprised. Before he could so much as utter a word of confusion she continued on just as though her thread had never been broken._

"_Don't be so shocked, runt." She laughed, shaking her head at the bewildered expression plastered upon his smooth, delicately-boned, young face. "Your aura's a dead giveaway. Besides that, I knew it'd be around this time that I'd be seeing you."_

"_How do __**you**__ know about Youko?" he asked, suddenly wary._

_Yes, he had known of her, and her prowess among the humans. She was, after all, Genkai. But, he little expected her to know him — that is, Youko — so immediately. He had expected that he would at least have to explain himself to her. But, at her greeting, he was quickly reminded of her skill. His eyes narrowed in somber suspicion, regarding her sharply._

"_I'm one of the top five Reiki masters in the world, Kid. I know some things about the Reikai."_

"_Of course," he conceded._

"_So what?" She hedged harshly, her voice sharp. "You've finally gotten through your ten year prison sentence then, I take it?" Her tone was all-knowing._

_Something about the all-knowing nature of her voice irked him. It was just __**too**__ familiar._

"_Yes, that is right. But there is a problem," he replied nodding his head slowly._

"_Is there? Well, spit it out, Kid: what is it?"_

_At the sniped tone in her voice, he looked back at her in shocked awe. For someone so respected in two of the four realms, she sure was obstinate and pushy. It was not quite how he had pictured her to be. Even though he came into their meeting not knowing what to expect, if to expect anything at all, this was the farthest from his mind._

"_Well," he began calmly, humoring her by 'spitting it out.,' "I assumed that after ten years I would be able to leave and return to my former ways."_

_She held up a hand to silence him, waving him into silence with a listless wave. "Lemme guess, Kid," she interrupted. "You can't though, can you?"_

"_No." His tone was bitter, resentful. "I can hardly manifest my ki at all. I need that remedied."_

"_The Great Youko Kurama is having trouble tapping his own ki? That's a laugh."_

"_So, can you help me then?" he asked shortly, gradually becoming irritated by the woman's coarse, assuming, and readily self-important attitude._

"_Helping a thief back to his ways? How would anyone profit from that?"_

_He growled low in his throat. The old woman was either very senile, or she enjoyed toying with him as she was. Either way, he did __**not**__ appreciate it. At all._

"_Alright, Kid, alright. Don't get your fur bunched up," she chuckled, noticing his waning patience level through the growl and perpetual glare he had fixed upon her. "I'll help you."_

"_Good." He sighed in relief. "So, what do I need to do?"_

"_Clear your mind. Hone your mind. And use your mind," she chanted back almost methodically, like some sort of archaic Buddhist mantra._

"_Right. Now, if you could please be any more cryptic?" he barked sarcastically._

"_Kid, first you have to hone your ki into an alloy. Then, you have to train your body to harness and control the alloyed ki. Finally, you have to learn to channel the alloyed energy into a source of outlet. In your case plants. Am I right?"_

_He nodded sagely at the explanation she had offered, as though it had all made crystal clear sense to him — damned if he would ever admit that it didn't. "Well, if that is all then, I suppose we should get to work?"_

_--_

_And with that, the two of them began the four-month, rigorous training session that would hopefully grant him control of his heretofore unattainable ki. What the next four months of his life held in store for him were: arduous hours of silent meditating; weeks of rigorous, exhausting mental training that assaulted his very reasoning; to the last, strenuous physical bit. Making good use of his Youko vitality and endurance, he persevered until the last and final day was upon them. The day of truth._

_He stood at the back entrance to her dojo, surrounded by the forest before his clear-burning eyes and to his sides and the protection of a towering ramshackle pagoda behind him. He waited for his instruction, for he himself didn't know what exactly to do, or what his mentor — the old woman — expected of him in the first place._

"_Remember, Kid," she cautioned. "Clear your mind; hone your mind; and use your mind."_

_She jumped back from his side after she had spoken, landing in the safety of the railed porch wrapping around the whole building. She crossed her arms across her chest and nodded expectantly at him, motioning for him to make his move._

"_What am I supposed to do?" he asked, feeling rather foolish and looking back at her confused._

"_Use your imagination, Kid!" she hollered, sounding almost as though she could not believe he had had to ask. Then, she added: "This is the final test."_

_He nodded in quiet understanding and turned back towards the vast forest sprawled around him. She let out a shrill whistle that cut through the air painfully, echoing through the hollows of the trees. He cringed at the sharp sound._

_Within moments, several demons had rushed out of the forest's brush and lunged for him in bloodlust. He watched them advancing steadily, almost detachedly for a moment, before remembering that __**he**__ was __**their**__ target. As the realization struck him, he automatically he bent down seizing a piece of grass, rushing at the demons. With a flick of his wrist towards them, they fell and he stood amazed, turning instinctively to his hand; the grass-leaf had turned into a blade. He blinked._

_Another few rushed him, curving their trails and coming from behind. He jumped back, narrowly avoiding one of the beast's teeth, and almost falling respectively into a wild rose bush. Without thinking, he dropped the leaf-blade and yanked a rose bloom off of the bush, waving it in front of him in what would later become an instinctive, methodic motion for him. He watched in amazement as it whirled through the air, enveloped in a streak of dim green light, and morphed into a beautifully sculpted and deadly whip that promptly ripped through his assaulters like a hot knife through butter._

_After a few more minutes, the demons attacking him had been reduced to noting but piles of flesh, blood, and bone littering the patch of barren ground he stood on. He stood amid the bloodshed, a smear of blood running below his eye. He wiped away at the streak tiredly, panting and exhausted, but clearly satisfied with himself._

_Genkai jumped back down to him and smiled proudly. The pride in her eyes was evident; her whole body swelled with it as she gazed upon his physically and mentally exhausted form._

"_See, Kurama?" She patted him on the shoulder. "All you had to do was focus. In your haste to leave this realm you never could properly, I wager. That's all it took."_

_He smiled, nodding in agreement. Yes, now it was apparent that that had been the only thing stopping him. But, still it took the badgering of an old woman to make him realize that and come to grips with it. She brought him to peace, which brought out his powers, and he was grateful._

"I have come a long way since that day, Genkai," I mumble tiredly, the beginnings of a laugh in my voice. "I am no longer an impatient imp. And, I know how to focus and not be quite so rash now." I shake my head, a sigh parting my lips in tired resignation.

_What can I do but accept the truth now, when it lies so plainly before my unseeing eyes?_

"Thanks to you, I have become what I am today," I continue. "Or, maybe that does not warrant thanks; I do not know." A hollow sound slips from my tongue; a laugh? The beginnings of distraught realization chewing at my sanity? "But either way, I would not be this way if not for you. Thank you." My voice tapers off, scratching dully at the back of my throat, cracking in emotion.

"You alright, man?" I hear a familiar voice ask.

I nod automatically. It is such a mechanical process.

Yuusuke sits down beside me, his movements unsteady and rigid.

"I can't believe it either, man," he says, probably more to himself than to me. "She shouldn't be gone — not this soon… It just seems immoral that she'd be the one to leave us after always preaching about teamwork, ya know?" His voice trails off, fading into nothingness.

I hear his voice grow more reflective, more wrought with the pain I myself am still trying to put behind me. Part of me wishes to lash out at him; viciously lash out and tell him to stop talking — stop making me live in the present reality.

But, he continues undisturbed in his mourning, for I do not have the heart or the energy to raise my voice at him. I doubt I can bring myself to be callous given the present situation at it stands.

"I mean… like, how she always called me _'dimwit_._'_ I don't really know what she saw in me. What she saw in any of the team." He shrugs heavily. "After all, at the beginning, we all wanted to kill each other more than our enemies. But, she managed to bring us together… She taught us so much… but she left us knowing even less… I just can't believe it."

"Neither can I," I reply dryly, standing up slowly; I have to get away from this. I do not want to have to deal with this. I cannot deal with other people's problems right now. Not when I have my own.

I cross the room stiffly; my usually fluid movements impeded by the rigidness of my muscles, and disappear into the hallway leading to the washroom. Upon entering the small, well-kept room, I close the door behind me gently, being mindful to not make more noise than necessary. I do not want to attract undue attention, now do I? Of course not. I step towards the sink and find myself gazing blankly at my reflection.

The person I see in the mirror over the sink is not at all who he should be. A haunted look has settled into the recesses of once lively, shining, viridian eyes. Pale, unscarred flesh is hideously sallow under the revealing fluorescent light. _Halogens are much more flattering_, I note mentally. Smooth bones protrude grotesquely from the hollows of my cheeks.

I shake my head hastily, a sudden, violent pain erupting behind my eyes, rolling through my head in a sick wave. Reflexively, to block out the sharp, jarring pain, I bite down on my lip, feeling the submissive tear of delicate tissue and taste copper. Startled by the sudden bitter tang flooding my mouth, I bring a hand to my lip. I trace my forefinger carefully along my bottom lip, wincing as it passes over the fresh laceration. I pull back abruptly, staring down at the small smear of blood adorning my fingertip.

At the sight, an idea explodes in my mind, almost as forcefully as my sudden migraine. It is an absurd notion, I admit. But perhaps it will be worth it. What can it hurt to try?

Slowly, I open the cupboard beneath the vanity mirror and rummage through the drawers. A restless urge is rippling through my muscles. Why? Unabashed curiosity? Sick anticipation? I do not know, yet the feeling is all at once overwhelming and welcoming.

_Surely she must have had one somewhere._

I do not even know why I am looking for something like this, but the chance seems too right.

_I have found the third option, and I will not let it surpass me this time._

I finally find one in the depth of the drawer; I pull it out, close the drawer, and shakily discard the grip portion of the object, setting it on the marble counter for a brief inspection.

The blade shimmers in an eerie sort of way in the dim lighting of the room, but it is enough to assuage my misgivings. The blade is sleek, small. The honed edge is finely toned to cut through the most difficult things, yet still managing to do it with an almost graceful ease, and sharp enough to cut through wood, glass, paper...

_Perfect. I will have no problem with its next assignment then._

The feeling had greeted me pleasantly enough from the strike of Hiei's sword, I recall. Briefly, I revel at the past sensation, feeling that quick slice of metal, the seamless tearing of skin, that slow trickle of blood draining ill-begotten worries. So, perhaps a razor would grant the same relief.

_It is worth trying at least, is it not?_

After one last look over the object I take it into my hand, fully, gripping the dulled grip portion stripped of its protective padded cover tightly in my hand. My whole arm quivers in anticipation. I take a long moment to admire the simplicity of the lone metal sliver I clench in my hand. It is utterly and truly amazing how an object so small and weightless — so seemingly harmless, yet potentially dangerous — can do so much for a person.

Slowly, taking great pains to steady my wavering grip, I bring the blade to my arm, resting it on the fleshy under-part of my forearm, at the wrist joint. Drawing in a breath of resolve, I close my eyes and make a quick swipe across the chosen area. As the initial shock of just having done what I have wears off, I reluctantly open my eyes and peer down at my wrist, watching as, for the second time, the blood bubbles forth from the wound, dripping down my wrist steadily and undisturbed.

_I was right._

Relief washes over me again like a tidal wave crashing into parched shorelines. My very spirit itself is getting lighter with each drop of blood escaping my veins. Such a rush. Such undiluted relief spreading over my form, pulsing through my veins, as though fire flowed through them.

_If such a small cut can do this, what would a deeper one do for me? _

_There is only one way to know for sure:_

_Test the theory._

I lay the blade to my skin again, drawing the cool blade across my skin more slowly this time, and applying gentle pressure. I watch raptly, amazed as more blood rushes forth, now creating a steady red river trickling down my arm, and into the sink basin. It is a most enchanting display, this flow of uninterrupted crimson. And, the act is so wonderfully enticing. Truly a narcotic.

As I had anticipated, I do feel better with the prompting of a deeper, slower, more savory cut. A greater surge of relief envelops my senses as a renewed wave of adrenaline washes away at the corrosive pains that clog my arteries. Such complete relief.

As I am about to drag the blade across my skin again, I hear the door creaking open. Horrified — not afraid that I would be reprimanded for my actions, but honestly terrified of being found out and laying my intelligent, unwavering disposition to waste — I almost drop the blade, having uncharacteristically been caught off guard. I manage to shove it hurriedly into my pants' pocket as the door swings back, its weathered hinges singing a mournful tune. I turn on the sink hastily, just in time, as someone steps into the room. I run my hands methodically under the cool water rushing from the faucet, quickly washing away the river of blood that trailed from my forearm, and the subsequent evidence of my most uncharacteristic behavior.

"Kurama, are you alright?" It is Botan's voice; she sounds concerned. "You've been in here for an awfully long time; I wanted to come see if you were okay. Are you?" she asks, stepping beside me and putting a hand on my shoulder in what I take she means to be a comforting gesture.

"Yes, yes, I am alright. I just had to collect myself for a moment," I reply, turning to her and smiling wanly. But, my action is not returned.

Her eyes have flown to the sink and are focused on the collection of watery red liquid residue that has been caught in the basin. Her face goes slack, what little color she has retained, drains from her cheeks in an instant. She looks about to be sick to her stomach.

_And I have noticed it too late. A careless mistake on my part._

"Blood…" she whispers, her eyes lingering on it in shock. Her voice is high, shaky. Terrified. Then, her eyes travel up to meet mine. Her gaze is imploring, searching the depths of me for any answer that does not scream the obvious and apparent. "Oh, Kurama, you didn't… Please… Please. Tell me that you didn't…"

I look away slowly averting my eyes. What am I supposed to say?

_Yes, yes I did. I cut myself. I did it twice, free of will._

"No, of course I did not. Who do you take me for, Botan?" I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral, convincing. But even I cannot ignore the false bravado in my voice as I say it.

Neither can she.

She shakes her head and grabs my arm, hanging loosely at my side, and stares disbelievingly at it. Her fingers clench around my forearm and I wince as she puts pressure against the fresh lacerations. Her arm is shaking; I feel her sway, as though faint. When I am able to bring myself to look her in the face, I see unshed tears welling in her amethyst eyes at what she sees.

"Kurama…" she chokes out, her voice almost incomprehensible. "You… did…"

"Botan, let me explain before you are quick to accuse, and jump to false conclusions," I begin quickly. But my tone is too loud. My words too abrupt. The frantic-nature of the phrase strikes me all too viciously about the face.

_How utterly and pathetically __**human**_.

_Have I truly, truly been reduced to such a desperate entity?_

She shakes her head and gives me a false smile, the corners of her lips quivering. "No, don't worry. I understand. Y-you don't need to explain anything. Really. It's okay… I-I really understand. I'll just go now…" She stumbles haphazardly over the words as they spring from her lips.

_Bravo. I really did it this time. How can I get out of it now? I have no right to deny it. There is a first-hand witness to my sin._

With a last fleeting, pained look at me, she hurries from the room leaving me to my peace. A strangled sob follows her wake, echoing morbidly down the hall.

_A sign of how things are to be, perhaps?_

I sigh; this already had turned to the worst.

_Well, there is no reason to turn then, is there?_

I pull the small blade from my sheltered pocket, gracing it with a longing smile, and drag it once again across my skin, deliberately slow and deep. Then, I retrace the blade's path again and again, pushing further into the fundamental boundaries set in flesh that should not be tried with each new swipe, until I find myself satisfied and appeased. The stream of blood coming from the wound is steady now, and is readily pooling in the washbasin. After a couple minutes I sigh and run my arms beneath the water savoring even the pain of the jet of water poring on my arm. But when I am finished, this time, I am careful to remove all of the residue from the basin. I rinse my wrist and place my other hand over it.

_For once, my sufficient skills in Spirit healing will come as some use to me._

I concentrate my aura on the wound and its healing. Once it has been ably seen to, I put the blade back into its drawer and I leave the room, preparing for the worst-case scenario that will surely be awaiting me. After all: such is my luck.

\

Surprisingly enough, as I pull myself back into the main chamber, no one even looks at me.

_Curious. I would have surely thought that Botan would have said something._

_Apparently not._

Curious, my mind burning with questions, I return to the wall I had occupied prior to my leaving, and settle in until everyone else decides to leave. Only then will I join them and take my leave.

In the time we each sit quietly waiting, absorbed in our own separate little worlds, I notice that Botan periodically catches my eyes and watches me until I turn away, or else someone comes to occupy either of us.

_I would like to say that her looks do not unsettle me. But, the truth is that they do._

Finally, the hours draw to a close and everyone gets up, ready to make their ways home after a long, sorrowful day. I join the tow at the door, and as I step out Botan hurries by me. I feel a rough object brush against my arm as she passes, and see a lone piece of paper flutter to the floor.

Bewildered by the paper, I hardly hear her as she whispers: "Why?" I try to ignore the word, but I hear the tears in the sentiment, and it rips at my heart most profoundly.

Intrigued, I remain behind a moment longer, waiting for everyone to pass me by. Then, I kneel down swiftly and retrieved the, now slightly tattered, piece of paper. Not wanting to open it here, I shove it into my pocket for safekeeping and make my way back to the house.

Throughout the return trip, Botan's words keep repeating themselves in my head. I cannot shake her voice, and cannot wash the sound of her tears from my conscience.

"_Why? Why? Why?"_

_I do not know._

_Why indeed._


	7. 3: Desiderata

_**Blood Letting**_

_--_

_Part II: Desiderata_

_A glass rose is not real.But what we often times overlookIs that what is not real,Is not always the most sturdy.It cannot feel, therefore it has nothing to weather.It cannot know pain, and so, cannot overcome it.It is far more fragile than a real rose,When one little crack can cause it to splinter;Broken forever, and never to be healed by time._

By the time I step through our front door the sun has well-hidden itself beneath the horizon, the sickle-moon replacing it with a luminescent glow. A glow that offers no warmth to speak of, merely radiates that cold, silver brilliance. The trip to Genkai's compound, the stay there, and the return, has occupied most of my day. And now it is late, and undoubtedly my family has already retired for the evening.

_A blessing in disguise. Now I will not have to answer any questions, at least._

As I had suspected, the house is silent when I walk through the downstairs, en route to the second floor and my room. Everyone has already turned themselves in for the endless night. Not wanting to wake them myself, I am slow in getting up to the second landing, avoiding making too much noise.

I draw myself into my bedroom and close the door quietly.

_Everything is so quiet, so calm. So utterly peaceful._

Everything except my own mind, at least.

Ever since Botan saw me, her disbelieving voice and sorrowful, horrified eyes have been imprinted in the recesses of my currently blank mind. No matter how I try to get my thoughts off of them, I cannot erase her expression, and cannot mute her voice.

_Perfect. More to add to my displeasure._

First, I am resigned to resolving my conflicting emotions regarding the very lie of a life I live. Second, I have to deal with the sudden, untimely, and unjust, death of one of my greatest mentors, and the turmoil this causes for me; never mind that everyone else will undoubtedly come to me in their mourning as well. After all, it has never stopped them before — I do not see it stopping them now.

I have always been — always will be, as far as I can see — the one of our ramshackle group that my companions come to when they are struggling with life. I am the stable one. The strong one. The knowing one. The one who can handle my own tangled existence as well as the burdens that my friends dump on my shoulders regularly.

_I can handle their problems because I overlook my own._

But now, in light of this, not any longer.

I have my own problems to face.

My own grief to overcome.

And my own guilty conscience to quell.

Not only have I unwittingly hurt the one woman who holds my heart by lying to her these last years of my mortal existence, but now I have to deal with Botan as well. The expression in her eyes is one I am not likely to soon forget.

_On the note of Botan, what could be written on that piece of paper?_

With my mind so clouded in disbelief, anger, sadness, and guilt at the events of this arduous seemingly 48-hour long day, I almost forgot about the slip of paper she had dropped. Actually, I am prone to believe she more threw it at me than anything. Just discretely, I suppose.

Of course, I cannot be one hundred percent certain that it was dropped intentionally, and there is no way I can know if she intended for me to see it, much less pick it up. There is no way I can know if I am even the one the note is intended for. But of course, it is much too late for such speculation, because the fact is: I did pick it up. That clearly gives me every right to see what is written upon it.

_Does it not?_

Regardless, curiosity is a token that often times should not be left unappeased.

_So I shall look upon the note._

I retrieve the note from my pocket and gaze at it briefly, contemplating whether or not I should appease my own curiosity by reading it, or hold on to the little fragment of respect that Botan might still have in me, by not reading it.

_She has more than likely lost all Faith in me after tonight._

Really though, who can blame her? I most certainly cannot. She has every right.

_So, no harm can come from reading the paper._

True.

And, in that mindset, having settled on the first of my two options, I begin to unfold the note, marveling at how warm the paper is. I suppose, having been nestled within the confines of my safe pocket for such a length of time would be the cause. Nonetheless, the peculiar warmth of such an inanimate object is surprising.

_Or perhaps I have just forgotten what it means to appreciate little blessings._

I shrug, continuing to unfold it. Once I unfold the center crease another paper slips from its bindings; drifts to the floor like a delicate white petal on a spring breeze. Whatever she had been writing was not exactly short, I can see. I pick up the fallen paper and position it behind its successor, settling myself casually onto my bed in order to read it through.

The thought processes of other people has always intrigued me. Reading first-hand Botan's own words will surely gift me with a better understanding of her.

And so I turn to the note, mildly surprised at her handwriting. Small, yet not cramped, and very neat. Somehow, I have always thought Botan's writing would be something short of illegible. But I have no right to criticize, as I merely jumped to a false bound conclusion. So utterly judgmental of me. How utterly, disgustingly, human of me.

_Has my humanity really become so far entrenched?_

Shaking the displeasing notion from my mind, I begin to read her writing:

"_Kurama,_

"_As much as I'd like to say I'm shocked at what I saw, I can't. Because, well… because I know you. Maybe not that well, but your character. Don't think I don't notice when everyone comes to you with their problems. We all have before. Hiei, on more than his share of occasions. Yuusuke, whenever he and Keiko are fighting. Keiko, whenever she and Yuusuke fight. Kuwabara, always about Yukina…. Even me. We all come to you with our problems."_

"_Maybe I'm writing this because I feel guilty. You never, ever complain when we come to you with our problems. In fact, you're always there. But… you don't have anyone to go to yourself, do you? You can't say you don't have anyone to go to because you don't have problems; we all do. That's life. But, maybe that's just it. You don't have anyone to go to. Maybe, I feel guilty because we drove you to this point. You can't deny it — I saw what you did."_

"_And really, a part of me can't blame you for what you did. What right do I have? You deal with our problems for us, and have no time to handle your own. That's why you did it, isn't it? As an outlet for your own burdened soul?"_

"_What I just don't get is, why couldn't you say something? We're your friends; we come to you for whatever, and we can return the favor. We should in spades, but we can't. And part of it's not because we don't want to help you; but you won't seem to let us. Why? Haven't we earned at least that much trust from you? (Do I even want to know the answer?)"_

"_Why would you resort to something so stupid as to cut yourself instead of talking to one of us? We all felt close to Master Genkai; we all grieved the first time she was killed by that egotistical, maniacal, psycho-of-a-human called Toguro. And now, we're all grieving again for the second time. All of us are. Why couldn't you grieve with us? Why couldn't you talk about it? Why did you resort to something like cutting yourself?"_

"_I know you're hurting. We all are. But what good is hurting yourself even more going to do? Feeling pain is a normal reaction in times like this. Maybe you don't understand that because you've been struggling against your humanity since it became an obstacle. Maybe you do know pain. I don't know. But, you shouldn't deal with it like this. It's dangerous."_

"_Maybe you do it because you don't want Youko to realize you've let emotion into your life. Maybe it's because you don't want to talk, or maybe you're scared to talk. Is that why? Because you think that if we see you grieving, we'll see you as weak? We all come to you with our problems, and seeing you as the weak one for once wouldn't do that justice would it?"_

"_I really don't know why you did it. I guess I don't know you as well as I'd like to think I do. But, then again, that's how you work, isn't it? You just won't let people get close to you. I know it's probably your first instinct to keep distanced from us, and I understand that — really, I do. I just don't want to believe it, because you should know now that you can come to us for anything. It's what friends do. I thought you knew that. But I guess you don't."_

"_I guess that's what really hurt me the most. The fact that you can't be honest with us about your own feelings. I don't care what they say; you have them. You're as human as the rest of us, and you have every right to grieve like us. But, you don't get that do you? You don't think you have the right, do you? And I guess that's why you did it — you hurt yourself— because you think it's the only thing you do have right to. Don't deny it, you can't. Because I know you don't think you belong here."_

"_I don't get that either. Why do you feel so guilty? We all have things in our pasts we wish we could hide or forget, but we can't. But, we move on, and we all belong here. That's why we're here in the first place. Would we be here at all if we didn't belong here? Think about it."_

"_We all have ties to this place, and as long as we have a common thread binding us here, we have a right to be here. And we always, always have the right to live. I wish you could understand that. Life is a precious thing; it should be cherished. And you're not. You're willing to throw the whole thing out just like that. And, I guess, that's what I don't understand. How could anyone's life be so bad that it seems better to have no life at all? Life is still life."_

"_I… I just want to tell you… that… when I saw your wrist — your blood — It really hurt me. Because, I really thought that I was your friend. Someone you could trust, and come to. But, I guess I was wrong, wasn't I? Why won't you let your shields down? You won't let people care about you, and more than anything, that's a stupid mistake on your part."_

"_More than anything… what I saw really scared me… People want to care about you, and whether you want them to or not, some people do anyway… I do. And when I saw you tonight… I got scared. Don't you understand what you're doing? Don't you know how much you're hurting the people around you by hurting yourself?"_

"_I don't know why you decided to cut yourself, I don't think I'll ever find out, because as much as I wish you would open up to me as a friend and show a little faith in me, I know you won't. And I have to accept that. But still, just because I don't know why you decided to do it, doesn't mean I won't keep hoping you'll tell me."_

"_What you're doing — I don't condone it. You're hurting yourself, and I'll never condone it. But, I do think I know why you do it. The way your life has been, you have more right than most of us. But, that doesn't make it right. Because it never will be. Still, I can't stop you. The choice is up to you, so I can't do anything about it anyways…"_

"_I know you hurt, I know you grieve. You're exactly like the rest of us, even if you don't show it. You know, I was once told that the essential sadness is to go throughout life without loving… And until now, I don't think I ever understood that. But, maybe that's why you're doing this. Because you feel alone, because you have no one to go to. Because you don't think people should care about you; love you. Something. I don't know."_

"_The way I see it, though, it's equally sad to leave this world without ever telling the people you love that you love them. So, think about that. Please, think about that… because… maybe it'll give you reason to go on… Maybe… Who really knows?"_

"_Kurama… I don't care who you are — what you are. But I will always love you as a friend for whomever you chose to be, or become. I speak for everyone when I say that. We're your friends; we love you no matter what; that won't change. So, you really shouldn't worry."_

"_Tonight what I saw; I didn't want to. But thinking on that — I'm happy I did see it. You see, what you did, it proves that you truly are as human as we all are. It showed you have weakness, you have doubt; you have fear and sadness. I wish I could've seen this all in another way, but I didn't. But, it's still proof enough that you're not immortal. I guess we'd to well to remember that, huh?"_

"_I don't like what I saw, it scared me, and always will. But still, I won't betray your trust so easily. It's probably just as wrong for you to cut yourself as it is for me not to tell anyone. But I'm not going to. That's your job; if you really want people to know, you'll let them. It's not my job. So, I won't tell anyone. I promise."_

"_Whether you see it or not, you are my friend. I won't lose faith in you, because the way I see it, you've already lost faith in yourself if you've had to resort to this. So someone else losing faith in you too is only going to make this worse. I won't give up on you, even if you've given up on yourself. I never will."_

_Always here,_

_Botan"_

I find it hard to believe she could have written all of this in such a small time period, but I guess she had. Of course, she must know how to write fast, seeing as she always has case files and mission reports to write for the Junior Ruler of the Reikai himself. It fits, I suppose.

But despite the fact that she probably rushed the words onto the paper — some of the finer letters bear ink smudges that my deft eyes quickly pick up on — her words themselves do not sound at all type-faced, like she wrote them forcedly. They sound sincere, modest. I can almost here her voice reading the letter as I look over the pages again. And her voice sounds wounded, as though my actions might have truly scared her.

That would well explain the amount of watermarked print. She had been crying as she wrote this. I can tell: t he salty residue of her tears clings to the paper, and it leaves a musty smell on the page.

Sometimes, I hate my sensitive nose for being able to tell such things. Most times, I would rather not know to begin with. Knowledge is _not_ always power. Sometimes ignorance really _is_ bliss.

But that in itself is another mystery to me. Why would she have been crying? Does she truly know me well enough for my actions to warrant such a heart-wrenching reaction? I doubt it. She and I are simply acquaintances. Colleagues working together on no more than a partner-like level during missions. She does not know me well. Yet the tear stains on the papers speak plainly for themselves.

Yet, the fact remains: whether or not she knows me well does not matter. She had still cried.

_She shed tears for my sake._

Even when she had neither grounds to, nor the right to. She still cried because of me.

_That does not really help ease my spirit._

If nothing else, it makes me feel worse. Because now I have to deal with this note. Botan made it clear that what I did had hurt her, when it had no reason to affect her at all. Now, on top of my own feelings to work through, I have to deal with hers as well.

_All this time I tried to avoid other peoples problems for once. Now look what it has gotten me._

For all my efforts, I have come back around full circle, still stuck in dealing with other people's emotions before my own.

_I suppose Karma is not the only thing that travels with the distinction of a boomerang back to the person who summoned it._

I sigh, folding the papers carefully and tossing them onto my desk, where they land with a resounding scratchy noise from paper hitting wood.

_For once, it appears that my token curiosity would have done better not appeased._

I suppose the saying holds true: curiosity really **did** kill the cat.

_Or in my case, the fox._

I chuckle slightly at my own string of misfortune. The Fates really do not like me, do they? I muse. It is just as well. That is how things should be. Seems the Fates are the only ones knowing enough to understand that, however.

I pull on my sleepwear and lie on top of the covers. As much as I wish for sleep to grip me, and send me spiraling into the peace that is unconsciousness, sleep seems the farthest thing from my mind at the present hour.

_Of course, it is always convenient like that. The things that you desire never do seem to come to you when you need them. Only when you don't want them do they make their appearance._

How utterly typical.

Still, I try valiantly to fall into sleep, though I would do as well to forget it. Sleep will not find me so long as I see Botan's expression in my mind, and hear her shaky voice echoing through my skull. The lines of her letter keep repeating themselves like a broken record within the empty vastness that has, as of late, taken over my mind, and with it, my thought process. As I lay here it is all I hear; indeed all I know, as it envelops my senses to the point where I can no longer hear even the crickets chirping from outside my opened window.

_Kurama, I don't care who you are — what you are. But I will always love you for whomever you chose to be, or become. You're not immortal. I guess we'd to well to remember that, huh? I won't give up on you, even if you've given up on yourself. I never will…_

The sound of her voice will not leave my ears, will not flee from my thoughts. Her anguish reels in my mind, voice a broken, teary whisper. Yet, I cannot clear my head, cannot drown out the mournful song she sings — cannot deaden the tearful echo of white noise that splinters my thoughts. I feel desperately that the Fates are being very cruel in their punishment of me by not granting me the simple release I desire into subconscious thought. Sleep is all I ask, and it is everything that I will not receive.

_Haven't I done enough? Hasn't it gone on long enough?_

I am never to have peace, it seems; never to have the tranquility I desire. When even

something so small and simple as sleep eludes me, it is obvious that there was no chance that something greater such as peace of mind will ever find me.

_Nothing good ever seems to find me…_

_Maybe the Karma boomerang really is the culprit…_

_Perhaps my false bound humanity is the culprit…_


	8. 3: Losing Touch

_**Blood Letting**_

_--_

_Part IV: Crimson Rain_

_An azoic object,It exists simply for the sake of being.It cannot fall prey to time and erosion,But to destruction nonetheless.Unfeeling, it wanders to its own demise,Unknowing of death's steady approach.A simple fracture grows,Leaving its former beauty marred._

A cold and lonely rain is the first thing to bring me from my catatonic reverie. The storm clouds hanging long since overhead have finally burst, calling forth a freezing drizzle which pelts me mercilessly. There is something soothing about the rain, actually. While it is horribly cold and numbing, it is soothing.

I once heard that tears were healing.

Perhaps the rains can act as those tears.

_I have none; mine will not fall._

The gentle _pitter-pat,-pitter-pat, _of the raindrops is calming, and it drowns out the sound of my own beating heart. A heart that has been beating painfully loud as of late.

_When it has no reason even to be beating to begin with._

But, even though the sound of my heart is drowned out by the rains, its feeling is not. I can feel it beating in my chest, with each throb of my wrist, with each new pulse; I can feel it beating.

With every new laceration I see the proof of its beating, as with each palpitation, fresh blood seeps through something short of a hairline fracture — a minute wound.

And sometimes it is all I can do to remind myself that I'm alive.

_Bleed._

Even now, when my wrist has long since stopped bleeding of its own accord, the red line playing across the delicate flesh of my wrist remains to remind me that I am indeed alive.

A rolling clap of thunder and a sudden flash of lighting snap me to my senses, pulling me back from my nothing-short-of-comatose state. Pulls me back into coherent reality. Suddenly, I am fully aware of my surroundings. I am dripping wet, and I suppose cold.

I have long since gone numb, I really would not know.

I do not suppose being outside is the best, most intelligent thing to do, given the situation. But, where to go, then? Where can I retire now?

_Home?_

_I haven't one to return to. Not any longer, at least. Shiori's words spoke plainly._

To Reikai?

_I am not in the mood for idle prying questions. Besides, I cannot face Botan like this._

To find Hiei?

_I do not suppose that would really get me out of this weather, though. Knowing him, he is holed up in some tree at this very moment._

To Kuwabara's house?

_I have no idea in the slightest as to his whereabouts, or as to where he lives._

To Yuusuke's house?

_Perhaps. Yes, he knows well enough to let me be. I am sure he would not mind the intrusion._

I settle my mind. I will go to Yuusuke and request residence. At least, for the time being.

Given the choice, I would rather stay outside. The cold is welcoming, and the weather bothers me only slightly. But, the fact is, tomorrow is Monday. A fresh week of school, and I am obligated to be there. I should not show up dripping wet and looking like a rabid animal. Or, any wetter or more rabid than I already am, at any rate.

I stand, only partially aware of what supports my weight. My legs, I suppose. It only makes sense. Cold has gripped my almost comatose form, and my mind, lost so far in its own spiral of insanity, intent on its own whiles, pays no mind to my physical body when it screams that it should feel cold.

That it should feel at all, really.

_But, I am only numb._

I suppose that is a feeling within itself

_It is a feeling of not feeling._

_A feeling of nothing._

I suppose that makes no sense, but it is the truth. To know you are numb, you have to feel yourself being numb, somehow. Numb — by sake of its name — may mean you feel nothing, but you feel it regardless. It makes no difference; it is of no importance to me, really. I am numb and that is all that matters. Or, perhaps it does not matter, but the point is valid: _it makes no difference to me._

--

I stand placidly on the doormat dropped haphazardly before the door. While it is not the least bit surprising to me to find Yuusuke's house looking so unkempt, it still strikes me as odd that he could live here. The apartment looks abandoned almost, and has an air of silence hovering ominously over its threshold. The doormat seems a shallow attempt to make the place seem terribly hospitable.

I rap my knuckles lightly across the wooden doorframe and wait for a response.

Within seconds my knock elicits an answer, as I find myself looking in the russet-eyed gaze of a tired, tousle-haired, and slightly irritated Yuusuke.

"Oi. What's up, Kurama, m'man? What're you doing out in this weather, this time of day?" he asks curiously.

Despite the irritated look splashed across his face, his voice is warm, welcoming. Foul-tempered as he looks, he has a good heart, definitely in the right place. He looks at me, worry dancing in his deep hazel eyes.

_I suppose I do look a fright in my state._

"Nothing really," I reply nonchalantly. "I just came to ask if I might find a place to sleep tonight."

"Why?" he asks confused, sidestepping and bidding me entrance, and escape from the weather.

I give a calm smile, a gracious nod of unspoken thanks.

"I seem to have locked myself out of my house, and my family has gone away for the day. They will not be returning to the house until tomorrow afternoon some time."

_Another lie, how fitting._

His worried expression melts into amusement, and just as he closes the door behind him and me, he bursts into hysterical laughter. "Kurama you locked yourself outta the house? Oh man, that's rich! I'da never thought you'd be that stupid, man!"

I feel a growl rising in my throat, wanting to spring forth from my lips, but I bite it back. No matter how immature his reaction is, I have to keep composed if I have any hope of him believing me.

"So, might I stay here a night, until school tomorrow? Then I shall return home," I ask, keeping my voice straight, trying to keep the bite out of my tone. Congruently, I try to figure out just how exactly I intend to 'return home' seeing as I am no longer welcome to Shiori.

"S-sure, man," he chokes out between laughs. "My boozy-wreck-of-a-mom's gone. No prob."

I nod again in thanks.

"I was 'bout to hit the sack, anyways man." As though to demonstrate his intention, he brings a hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn. "I'm beat. But, eh... You might wanna clean up a bit first?"

I stay quiet and continue to follow him through the house as he goes about trying to find some bedding for me. My eyes skim the house quietly, quickly taking in my surroundings. It is the mark of a great ex-thief that I can still spot the most unnoticeable details upon a quick once-over.

The kitchen is a mess of broken glass, littered with crushed aluminum cans and shattered beer bottles. Despite Yuusuke's obvious attempts at somewhat straightening the place — the trash, in his defense, is stacked full of bottles and cans, and the counters and sinks are spotless, it is still a sight to behold. The putrid stench of alcohol wafts through the entire house, and it's almost enough to make me wretch. The living room is strewn with laundry and unfinished foodstuffs. If this is just this small section of the house, I hate to think what his room or the bathroom looks like.

He catches me in my inspections and gives a dry chuckle. "Yeah, that's mom for ya. Sorry 'bout the mess man. I do what I can, but… heh, what a single kid does in a weekend gets wrecked in ten minutes. You know?" There is a laugh in his voice, like his mother's problem is inconsequential and does not bother him.

I know better.

I shake my head. "It is quite alright, Yuusuke. No need to apologize."

It is not as though this is his fault. He is a minor. And, not that it matters so much, but he is not responsible for his mother's vices. A man does what he has to, to stay alive. It might sound cruel, but that is just the type of world we live in: dog-eat-dog. He looks out for himself. He is not responsible for his mother, or her tendencies.

He leads me into his room, and I am surprised to see that it is cleaner than the rest of the place. And here I thought I was through jumping to false bound conclusions — as though my lesson from Botan's letter has actually gotten through to me. His clothes are folded in his inverse drawers, his futon is made, and the floor is clean. As clean as the floor of any teenaged male's room can be, at least.

"You can crash in here, on the floor," he tells me, waving broadly. He then points me to a door on the far wall of his bedroom. "There's the bathroom if you want to clean yourself up."

I nod again, mutter the appropriate thanks, and retreat into the door he mentioned. The room is also clean, given the jumble of beauty products, assumingly his mother's, strewn over the bathroom countertop. There is a small vanity mirror attached to the front of the medicine cabinet overlooking the sink, and I catch my reflection in it briefly.

Bags are starting to form under my eyes, deep and unsettling, making my gaze seem hollow and dead. My hair is a mess of tangles and knots drooping limply off my skull, each strand dripping wet, and falling cumbersomely into my face. My face is streaked with raindrops and dirt, and my eyes look devoid of life. Haunted. Inari, when did I become the living-dead?

_Is this truly me?_

How can anyone dredge beauty from this?

I shake my head and turn on the faucet, splashing my face with the cool water, cleaning off the dirt. Then I turn for a brush and begin the tedious job of sorting through the knots in my hair. First I rake my fingers through the mess, hoping to disengage the most vicious of the nests. Then, I pull the brush through.

_I never favored my hair; I am not overly fond of it. I only keep it because of Youko._

_To remind me of him; to remind me of my past._

_And to keep me from forgetting it._

In a way, my own form of self-torture.

By the time I have restored my hair to its natural silky carmine sheen, my skull is throbbing painfully from the brush, but it had left me little choice. As much as my long hair annoys me, unkempt hair and ragged appearances bother me even more.

_It is just more pain now, physical and mental._

Looking back to the mirror to see if I' have satisfactorily sorted myself out, I catch sight of a glint. The bathroom light reflects it off of the vanity mirror. I look towards the object.

_My salvation._

A razor.

Of course, a woman would own one. I should not be surprised to see one.

And, really, I am not.

Consequently, I should not be happy to see one.

But, I am.

I smile knowingly at the little treasure I have discovered and pocket it quickly, lest Yuusuke see me. After all, I tell myself, it is not as though I am going to use it just because I have it.

_Then again., It is not as though I am __**not**__ intending to either, just because I do._

"Yo, Kurama, you done in there? I'm tired and want to get the light out!" Yuusuke's voice cuts through my thoughts and I turn expectantly. His head has just appeared from around the corner of the door.

I sigh quietly, thanking Inari that he had not come in mere moments before to see me pocket my forbidden little treasure. "Yes, I am done, thank you. I am coming."

I exit the room with my treasure tucked safely in my pocket. As I enter his bedroom again, I see a small blue blanket thrown on the floor in the corner beneath his window.

"That's all I could find," he apologizes sheepishly, running a hand through his tousled raven hair. "Sorry man." I hear him yawn as he pulls himself into bed.

"It is more than enough, Yuusuke. Thank you," I utter the appropriate thanks and go to the blanket, suddenly tired myself. I pull off my shoes and lie down on his floor, the tatami mats meeting my back welcomely, the musty aroma of airing-hay pleasant to my senses.

"'Night, man," I here Yuusuke call, and then the lights go out.

I am left in the dark with only a thin blanket and the clothes I am wearing. But, for once, it is enough. For once, the old contentment I used to feel has returned.

_For once, I am appreciative._

I close my eyes to the darkness, welcoming it as it steels my consciousness from me and sends me spiraling into a deep, dreamless slumber.

--

"Hey, Kurama, are you really gonna go to school lookin' like that?" Yuusuke asks me the next morning as I stand by the door waiting for him.

"Yes. Though, I'll admit, it seems odd going out of uniform," I reply.

Since I was wearing casual clothes at the time when Shiori threw me out, I have not had the opportunity to retrieve my uniform. What is more, since I had spent the day outside in those clothes, and had promptly been rained upon, now they are not exactly clean.

He shrugs in his noncommittal way.

I return the gesture stiffly, my discomfort probably evident.

"Hey, Yuusuke — Oh, good morning Kurama!" I hear a familiar female voice call to us. I turn and see Keiko running down the street towards us, already in uniform, her blue skirt billowing at her sides as she runs to meet us.

Yuusuke calls good morning and I nod.

As she approaches us, Yuusuke turns to me. "Hey, Kurama! Me and Keiko, and Kuwabara are going out after school, you should come."

I am about to decline his invitation when my conscience stops me. A slap in the face.

_I have nowhere to go afterwards; it will help pass the hours..._

I nod slowly, reluctantly. "Sure, I will meet you back here at five-thirty, then?"

They nod, and I smile pleasantly before turning and going off to my own school.

_And the hell that surely awaits me there._

--

As I had anticipated, the second I draw myself into my classroom I am met with looks of awe, if not outright disgust. Not just from my fellow pupils either, but from the teacher as well. The whispers start instantly, a steady hum of white noise thudding against my eardrums.

_"Look, the great Minamino's finally showin' his true colors."_

_"What? He too good to wear a uniform now?"_

_"I can't believe the girls idolize this slob."_

I ignore the comments. They always talk, and always will. It is an integral part of their human natures. I accept that, and it makes no difference to me either way. Lately, school itself makes no difference to me. Nothing does, I suppose. It seems that my lust for life has taken away more than my former joy. Ah, well. So goes life, hm?

"Minamino-san, come up to my desk for a moment, would you, please?" I hear the sensei Omura-sama call me. He sounds rather displeased, I note, judging this from the hint of distaste in his tone as he addresses me.

_I can hardly blame him._

I stride diligently to his desk, ignoring the upsurge of new whisperings from my classmates behind my turned back. He asks me about my lack of dress (that is to say lack of uniform) and I explain my situation. Or, rehash the lie I fed Yuusuke. He believes me, and asks no further questions, merely telling me to take my seat again. I comply, I suppose for lack of anything better to do.

Minutes pass, and Omura-sama commences with his daily lectures. Something about Pythagorean's Theorem, and a corollary of Pi. Among the rustling of paper and scratch of pencils I can still make out my classmates hushed whispers. They will follow me the entire day. At least.

_I cannot fathom why I wanted to come to back to this place..._

Truthfully, I do not know why. It is a mystery; clearly I am unaccepted and unhappy here, so why do I return? Do I just wish to punish myself further? Seems I have a penchant for self-inflicted pain that is far more entrenched than the metal sliver nestled in my pocket.

_Apparently._

I sit rigid in my desk. A desk unfairly designed for the right-handed population. Pardon my lack of ambidexterity, but some of us do utilize only our left hands, at least when it comes to writing.

_Pitter-pat-pitter-pat._

My eyes dart to the window. Black storm clouds have blanketed the sky, similar to those of the previous night, yet far more ominous in appearance. The rains already drop onto the outer window ledge painfully, streaking the windows and obscuring my vision. The rain itself is so thick that individual drops are impossible to see. Any rain is difficult to make out, actually; it is coming down in sheets.

In fact, the only real proof that it is raining comes from the _pitter-pat-pitter-pat_ of the heavy drops on the outer pane.

My classmate's comments, an ill-designed desk, the monotony that is school, and lately, my life in general… Now, the dreary weather. Oh, yes, this is turning out to be a fine school day, indeed. I chuckle dryly at the thought and wonder dully if I have always been such a pessimist, or if this is a new part of me, just recently developed.

Oh, but it has been _such _a find day. So fine, in fact, that the small, nearly weightless piece of metal still resting in my pocket seems all-the-more promising.

--

The sky is no more than a mass of foggy gray, with the occasional glimpse of the late noonday sun through the cloud cover. While weather conditions have improved slightly, or at least the clouds have begun to thin out, it is still raining.

A sharp breeze washes over me, pelting me with icy rain. The freezing drizzle pours wild and uncontrollably around me. I suppose I should be cold, but my body has long since gone numb, leaving me in an unfeeling state. I have been numb a lot in recent days. In a flash of dry humor I harbor the thought of having contracted CIPA, that is, a congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis. A genetic mutation that leaves the body unfeeling to pain.

It is a dry thought, but it would explain away my apathy.

Metal reflects silver in my hand as pale light bounces off of it. Somehow, this has become a comfort. My precious, forbidden treasure. A treasure so unimportant to most, so overlooked. But to me it is freedom, unparalleled and unquestioning.

Release.

I lay the blade to my soaked glistening skin only gently. The blade is wet; as am I. Too much pressure and it could turn fatal.

_Perhaps that would be for the best…_

The blade is cool and damp, and feels familiar on my flesh.

_Not just familiar._

_Welcome._

My actions are hesitant. More than likely, I am the only student left; it is already five-twenty; after hours, and all other students have already gone. Because unlike me, they have lives and families to go home to. However, the janitors are here until six.

_If one of them should chance to notice me…_

I shove the thought to be back of my mind without a second thought.

_Since when do I care?_

I shake my head. Now, or never, I tell myself. I draw the metal sliver easily across my flesh, retracing the same line as always: careful, measured horizontal strokes that shear open life-giving vessels. When the blood bubbles to the surface, I am disappointed that the feeling it grants is not at all what I am accustomed to.

_There is no pleasure._

_No release._

Slightly angry, I pull the blade across in another area, slightly deeper and in a vertical stroke. More dangerous, therefore — hopefully — more gratifying.

_Still nothing._

Why is it _not_ working? My mind clouds in brief anger. The one thing I have, the one outlet I am granted, and now, _**now**_ of all times, it chooses to stop alleviating my pain?

I slash frantically at my wrist again: four, five, six times. Until all that is left of my arm is a bleeding red mass of painful tissue. Yet, it is still not having the desired effect.

_I have been too careful… Too precautious…_

I switch the blade into my other hand, my fingers wrapping around it tightly. I feel the blade dig into my palm and watch as blood trickles off of honed edge, joining the pool that is dripping off of my lacerated forearm to my feet.

I press the blade to the fresh, untouched skin of my unmarred arm, and press down hard, pulling the blade through my tearing flesh deliberately slow. I relish the feeling; it has come back — _finally_. Small, calculated wounds will no longer do it, it seems. But, this works.

_Such relief again._

The blade slips from my fingers and clatters to the ground noisily. I can hardly move my left arm; I slashed at it too many times apparently. It is too injured to respond, too injured to feel. All I know is the stinging sensation that greets me when a renegade water drop meets with the festering skin.

My right arm has gone numb in the cold, and all I can feel there is my pulse, heavy and fast, arrhythmic, bringing with each new throb a fresh wave of blood.

While one arm is numb to the point of incompetence, and the other sore, I am relieved. My treasure has not let me down. It still brings the same satisfaction with it. Granted, it takes more to achieve that satisfaction now, it would seem. But at least it still does on some fundamental level.

Rain falls around me, splattering the roof beneath my feet wildly, but it does not run clear. It is red. And the water pooling around my feet near the drain basin runs a diluted, startlingly bright cherry. It is considerably a bit more than just a faint almost pink tinge of red, as well. It is thick, full-fledged crimson.

_So much red water._

On impulse alone, I turn to my arms. By now, the blood flow should have lessened to almost ceasing, but it continues in a steady river.

_Something is not right._

I place my other hand hurriedly over the wound, wincing at the painful, sudden movement of lacerated flesh. It is going too far. I have to stop it. I concentrate on the wound, but my aura is not responding.

_Damn, damn, damn._

I cannot even tap my Youki!

_Fuck._

Such a vulgar word. One I hate to have to use. But nothing else fits the void.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!_

But I have to stop it; it has gone _way _too far. Even with the pressure applied over the wound with my free hand, blood still drips under it — actually, still streams just as steadily and undisturbed as if my hand were not even over the wound. My free hand is drenched scarlet, no end of the unnatural dyeing in sight. My wounded arm supplies the red, sticky liquid freely, and the white shirt I have on is also seeing the results of it.

My ears go deaf, drowning out the wind and rain altogether, leaving me wrapped in silence, knowing nothing more than my painfully beating heart, and my swimming vision. And, despite the welling terror in my gut, it is unnatural. There is no buzzing in my ears, no static white noise. Just utter silence. Eerie.

And in the midst of my terrified musings, I am stuck painfully upside the head with a realization I should have come to long ago:

_This isn't satisfaction anymore._

The feeling that the blade brought with it has long since evaporated, leaving me feeling only the one thing I have been trying to avoid, been actively running from this whole time.

I finally feel it.

_It hurts. Thoroughly aches._

My energy gives way, and I feel myself falling, falling, falling. Flying without wings and miserably failing. So much like the fallen angel that I am. Or was. Or never was.

Demons — monsters — don't have wings, after all.

I am partially aware of the cold, and wet, and the pain. I know something solid has stopped me in my failed attempt to fly. And everything hurts. But, where everything is, and where I am, I cannot say. It is too hard to keep a level head, to float above the sea of unconscious bliss. All I want to do is go under, take in the silence, the beckoning waves of dreamless sleep.

_Embrace the red ocean I am drifting in…_

_Embrace the darkness._


	9. 3: Crimson Rain

**Blood Letting**

_Part IV: Crimson Rain_

_An azoic object,  
__It exists simply for the sake of being.  
__It cannot fall prey to time and erosion,  
__But to destruction nonetheless.  
__Unfeeling, it wanders to its own demise,  
__Unknowing of death's steady approach.  
__A simple fracture grows,  
__Leaving its former beauty marred._

A cold and lonely rain is the first thing to bring me from my catatonic reverie. The storm clouds hanging long since overhead have finally burst, calling forth a freezing drizzle which pelts me mercilessly. There is something soothing about the rain, actually. While it is horribly cold and numbing, it is soothing.

I once heard that tears were healing...

Perhaps the rains can act as those tears...

_I have none; mine will not fall._

The gentle _pitter-pat-pitter-pat _of the raindrops is calming, and it drowns out the sound of my own beating heart. A heart that has been beating painfully loud as of late.

_When it has no reason even to be beating to begin with._

But, even though the sound of my heart is drowned out by the rains, its feeling is not. I can feel it beating in my chest, with each throb of my wrist, with each new pulse; I can feel it beating...

With every new laceration, I see the proof of its beating, as with each palpitation fresh blood seeps through something short of a hairline fracture — a minute wound.

And sometimes it is all I can do to remind myself that I'm alive.

_Bleed._

Even now, when my wrist has long since stopped bleeding of its own accord, the red line playing across the delicate flesh of my wrist remains to remind me that I am indeed alive.

A rolling clap of thunder and a sudden flash of lighting snap me to my senses, pulling me back from my nothing-short-of-comatose state. Pulls me back into coherent reality. Suddenly, I am fully aware of my surroundings. I am dripping wet, and I suppose cold.

I have long since gone numb, I really would not know.

I do not suppose being outside is the best, smartest thing to do, given the situation. But, where to go, then? Where can I retire now?

_Home?_

_I haven't one to return to. Not any longer, at least. Shiori's words spoke plainly._

To Reikai?

_I am not in the mood for idle prying questions. Besides... I cannot face Botan like this._

To find Hiei?

_I do not suppose that would really get me out of this weather, though. Knowing him, he is holed up in some tree at this very moment._

To Kuwabara's house?

_I have no idea in the slightest as to his whereabouts, or as to where he lives._

To Yuusuke's house?

_Perhaps. Yes, he knows well enough to let me be. I am sure he would not mind the intrusion._

I settle my mind. I will go to Yuusuke and request residence. At least, for the time being.

Given the choice, I would rather stay outside. The cold is welcoming, and the weather bothers me only slightly. But, the fact is, tomorrow is Monday. A fresh week of school, and I am obligated to be there. I should not show up dripping wet and looking like a rabid animal. Or, any wetter or more rabid than I already am, at any rate.

I stand, only partially aware of what supports my weight. My legs, I suppose. It only makes sense. Cold has gripped my almost comatose form, and my mind, lost so far in its own spiral of insanity, intent on its own whiles, pays no mind to my physical body when it screams that it should feel cold.

That it should feel at all, really.

_But, I am only numb..._

I suppose that is a feeling within itself

_It is a feeling of not feeling..._

_A feeling of nothing..._

I suppose that makes no sense, but it is the truth. To know you are numb, you have to feel yourself being numb, somehow. Numb — by sake of its name — may mean you feel nothing, but you feel it regardless. It makes no difference; it is of no importance to me, really. I am numb and that is all that matters. Or, perhaps it does not matter, but the point is valid: _it makes no difference to me._

---

I stand placidly on the doormat dropped haphazardly before the door. While it is not the least bit surprising to me, to find Yuusuke's house looking so... unkempt, it still strikes me as odd that he could live here. The apartment looks abandoned almost, and has an air of silence hovering ominously over its threshold. The doormat seems a shallow attempt to make the place seem terribly hospitable.

I rap my knuckles lightly across the wooden doorframe and wait for a response.

Within seconds my knock elicits an answer, as I find myself looking in the russet-eyed gaze of a tired, tousle-haired, and slightly irritated Yuusuke.

"Oi. What's up, Kurama, m'man? What're you doing out in this weather, this time of day?" He asks curiously. Despite the irritated look splashed across his face, his voice is warm, welcoming. Foul-tempered as he looks, he has a good heart, definitely in the right place. He looks at me, worry dancing in his deep hazel eyes.

_I suppose I do look a fright in my state._

"Nothing really," I reply nonchalantly. "I just came to ask if I might find a place to sleep tonight."

"Why?" he asks confused, sidestepping and bidding me entrance, and escape from the weather.

I gave a calm smile, a gracious nod of unspoken thanks.

"I seem to have locked myself out of my house, and my family has gone away for the day. They will not be returning to the house until tomorrow afternoon some time."

_Another lie, how fitting._

His worried expression melts into amusement, and just as he closes the door behind him and me, he bursts into hysterical laughter. "Kurama you locked yourself outta the house? Oh man, that's rich! I'da never thought you'd be that stupid, man!"

I feel a growl rising in my throat, wanting to spring forth from my lips, but I bite it back. No matter how immature his reaction is I have to keep composed if I have any hope of him believing me.

"So, might I stay here a night until school tomorrow? Then I shall return home," I ask, keeping my voice straight, trying to keep the bite out of my tone. Congruently, I try to figure out just how exactly I intend to 'return home' seeing as I am no longer welcome to Shiori.

"S-sure, man," he chokes out between laughs. "My boozy-wreck-of-a-mom's gone. No prob."

I nod again in thanks.

"I was 'bout to hit the sack, anyways man." As though to demonstrate his intention, he brings a hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn. "I'm beat. But, eh... You might wanna clean up a bit first?"

I stay quiet and continue to follow him through the house as he goes about trying to find some bedding for me. My eyes skim the house quietly, quickly, taking in my surroundings. It is the mark of a great ex-thief that I can still spot the most unnoticeable details upon a mere quick once-over.

The kitchen is a mess of broken glass, littered with crushed aluminum cans and shattered beer bottles. Despite Yuusuke's obvious attempts at somewhat straightening the place — the trash, in his defense, is stacked full of bottles and cans, and the counters and sinks are spotless, it is still a sight to behold. The putrid stench of alcohol wafts through the entire house, and it's almost enough to make me wretch. The living room is strewn with laundry and unfinished foodstuffs. If this is just this small section of the house, I hate to think what his room or the bathroom looks like.

He catches me in my inspections and gives a dry chuckle. "Yeah, that's mom for ya. Sorry 'bout the mess man. I do what I can, but… heh, what a single kid does in a weekend gets wrecked in ten minutes. You know?" There is a laugh in his voice, like his mother's problem is inconsequential and does not bother him.

I know better.

I shake my head. "It is quite alright, Yuusuke. No need to apologize."

It is not as though this is his fault. He is a minor. And, not that it matters so much, but he is not responsible for his mother's vices. A man does what he has to, to stay alive. It might sound cruel, but that is just the type of world we live in: dog-eat-dog. He looks out for himself. He is not responsible for his mother, or her tendencies.

He leads me into his room, and I am surprised to see that it is cleaner than the rest of the place. And here I thought I was through jumping to false bound conclusions — as though my lesson from Botan's letter has actually gotten through to me. His clothes are folded in his inverse drawers, his futon is made, and the floor is clean. As clean as the floor of any teenage male's can be, at least.

"You can crash in here on the floor." He then points me to a door on the far wall of his bedroom. "There's the bathroom if you want to clean yourself up."

I nod again and retreat into the door he mentioned. The room is also clean, given the jumble of beauty products, assumingly his mother's, strewn over the bathroom countertop. There is a small vanity mirror attached to the front of the medicine cabinet overlooking the sink, and I catch my reflection in it briefly.

Bags are starting to form under my eyes, deep and unsettling, making my gaze seem hollow and dead. My hair is a mess of tangles and knots drooping limply off my skull, each strand dripping wet, and falling cumbersomely into my face. My face is streaked with raindrops and dirt, and my eyes look devoid of life. Haunted. Inari, when did I become the living-dead?

_Is this truly me?_

How can anyone dredge beauty from this?

I shake my head and turn on the faucet, splashing my face with the cool water, cleaning off the dirt. Then I turn for a brush and begin the tedious job of sorting through the knots in my hair. First I rake my fingers through the mess, hoping to disengage the most vicious of the nests. Then, I pull the brush through.

_I never favored my hair; I am not overly fond of it. I only keep it because of Youko._

_To remind me of him; to remind me of my past._

_And to keep me from forgetting it._

In a way, my own form of self-torture...

By the time I have restored my hair to its natural silky carmine sheen, my skull is throbbing painfully from the brush, but it had left me little choice. As much as my long hair annoys me, unkempt hair and ragged appearances bother me even more.

_It is just more pain now, physical and mental._

Looking back to the mirror to see if I' have satisfactorily sorted myself out, I catch sight of a glint. The bathroom light reflects it off of the vanity mirror. I look towards the object.

_My salvation._

A razor.

Of course a woman would own one. I should not be surprised to see one.

And, really, I am not...

Consequently, I should not be happy to see one…

But, I am.

I smile knowingly at the little treasure I have discovered, and pocket it quickly, lest Yuusuke see me. After all, I tell myself, it is not as though I am going to use it just because I have it...

_Then again... It is not as though I am __**not**__ intending to either, just because I do..._

"Yo, Kurama, you done in there, I'm tired and want to get the light out!" Yuusuke's voice cuts through my thoughts and I turn expectantly. His head has just appeared from around the corner of the door.

I sigh quietly, thanking Inari that he had not come in mere moments before to see me pocket my forbidden little treasure. "Yes, I am done, thank you. I am coming."

I exit the room with my treasure tucked safely in my pocket. As I enter his bedroom again, I see a small blue blanket thrown on the floor in the corner beneath his window.

"That's all I could find," he apologizes sheepishly, running a hand through his tousled raven hair. "Sorry man." I hear him yawn as he pulls himself into bed.

"It is more than enough, Yuusuke. Thank you," I utter the appropriate thanks and go to the blanket, suddenly tired myself. I pull off my shoes and lie down on his floor, the tatami mats meeting my back welcomely, the musty aroma of airing-hay pleasant to my senses.

"'Night, man," I here Yuusuke call, and then the lights go out.

I am left in the dark, with only a thin blanket and the clothes I am wearing. But, for once, it is enough. For once, the old contentment I used to feel has returned.

_For once, I am appreciative._

I close my eyes to the darkness, welcoming it as it steels my consciousness from me and sends me spiraling into a deep, dreamless slumber.

---

"Hey, Kurama, are you really gonna go to school lookin' like that?" Yuusuke asks me the next morning as I stand by the door waiting for him.

"Yes. Though, I'll admit, it seems odd going out of uniform," I reply.

Since I was wearing casual clothes at the time when Shiori threw me out, I have not had the opportunity to retrieve my uniform. What is more, since I had spent the day outside in those clothes, and had promptly been rained upon, now they are not exactly clean.

He shrugs in his noncommittal way.

I return the gesture stiffly, my discomfort probably evident.

"Hey, Yuusuke — Oh, good morning Kurama!" I hear a familiar female voice call to us. I turn and see Keiko running down the street towards us, already in uniform, her blue skirt billowing at her sides as she runs to meet us.

Yuusuke calls good morning and I nod.

As she approaches us, Yuusuke turns to me. "Hey, Kurama, me and Keiko, and Kuwabara are going out after school, you should come."

I am about to decline his invitation when my conscience stops me. A slap in the face.

_I have nowhere to go afterwards; it will help pass the hours..._

I nod slowly, reluctantly. "Sure, I will meet you back here at five-thirty, then?"

They nod, and I smile pleasantly before turning and going off to my own school.

_And the hell that surely awaits me there._

---

As I had anticipated, the second I draw myself into my classroom I am met with looks of awe, if not outright disgust. Not just from my fellow pupils either, but from the teacher as well. The whispers start instantly, a steady hum of white noise thudding against my eardrums.

_"Look, the great Minamino's finally showin' his true colors."_

_"What? He too good to wear a uniform now?"_

_"I can't believe the girls idolize this slob."_

I ignore the comments. They always talk, and always will. It is an integral part of their human natures. I accept that, and it makes no difference to me either way. Lately, school itself makes no difference to me. Nothing does, I suppose. It seems that my lust for life has taken away more than my former joy... Ah well. So goes life, hm?

"Minamino-san, come up to my desk for a moment, would you, please?" I hear the sensei Omura-sama call me. He sounds rather displeased, I note, judging this from the hint of distaste in his tone as he addresses me.

_I can hardly blame him._

I stride diligently to his desk, ignoring the upsurge of new whisperings from my classmates behind my turned back. He asks me about my lack of dress (that is to say lack of uniform) and I explain my situation. Or, rehash the lie I fed Yuusuke. He believes me, and asks no further questions, merely telling me to take my seat again. I comply, I suppose for lack of anything better to do.

Minutes pass, and Omura-sama commences with his daily lectures. Something about Pythagorean's Theorem, and a corollary of Pi. Among the rustling of paper and scratch of pencils I can still make out my classmates hushed whispers. They will follow me the entire day. At least.

_I cannot fathom why I wanted to come to back to this place..._

Truthfully, I do not know why. It is a mystery; clearly I am unaccepted and unhappy here, so why do I return? Do I just wish to punish myself further? Seems I have a penchant for self-inflicted pain that is far more entrenched than the metal sliver nestled in my pocket.

_Apparently._

I sit rigid in my desk. A desk unfairly designed for the right-handed population. Pardon my lack of ambidexterity, but some of us do utilize only our left hands, at least when it comes to writing.

_Pitter-pat-pitter-pat._

My eyes dart to the window. Black storm clouds have blanketed the sky, similar to those of the previous night, yet far more ominous in appearance. The rains already drop onto the outer window ledge painfully, streaking the windows and obscuring my vision. The rain itself is so thick that individual drops are impossible to see. Any rain is difficult to make out actually, it is coming down in sheets.

In fact, the only real proof that it is raining comes from the _pitter-pat-pitter-pat_ of the heavy drops on the outer pane.

My classmate's comments, an ill-designed desk, the monotony that is school, and lately, my life in general… Now, the dreary weather. Oh, yes, this is turning out to be a fine school day, indeed. I chuckle dryly at the thought and wonder dully if I have always been such a pessimist, or if this is a new part of me just recently developed.

Oh, but it has been _such _a find day. So fine, in fact, that the small, nearly weightless piece of metal still resting in my pocket seems all-the-more promising.

---

The sky is no more than a mass of foggy gray, with the occasional glimpse of the late noonday sun through the cloud cover. While weather conditions have improved slightly, or at least the clouds have begun to thin out, it is still raining.

A sharp breeze washes over me, pelting me with icy rain. The freezing drizzle pours wild and uncontrollably around me. I suppose I should be cold, but my body has long since gone numb, leaving me in an unfeeling state. I have been numb a lot, in recent days. In a flash of dry humor I harbor the thought of having contracted CIPA, that is, a congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis. A genetic mutation that leaves the body unfeeling to pain.

It is a dry thought, but it would explain away my apathy.

Metal reflects silver in my hand as pale light bounces off of it. Somehow, this has become a comfort. My precious, forbidden treasure. A treasure so unimportant to most, so overlooked. But to me it is freedom…

Release.

I lay the blade to my soaked glistening skin only gently. The blade is wet; as am I. Too much pressure and it could turn fatal.

_Perhaps that would be for the best…_

The blade is cool and damp, and feels familiar on my flesh.

_Not just familiar…. Welcome._

My actions are hesitant. More than likely, I am the only student left; it is already five-twenty; after hours and all other students have already gone. Because unlike me, they have lives and families to go home to. However, the janitors are here until six. Should one of them notice me… I shove the thought to be back of my mind without a second thought.

_Since when do I care?_

I shake my head. Now, or never, I tell myself. I draw the metal sliver easily across my flesh, retracing the same line as always: careful, measured horizontal strokes that shear open life-giving vessels. When the blood bubbles to the surface, I am disappointed that the feeling it grants is not at all what I am accustomed to.

_There is no pleasure._

_No release._

Slightly angry, I pull the blade across in another area, slightly deeper and in a vertical stroke. More dangerous, therefore — hopefully — more gratifying.

_Still nothing._

Why is it _not_ working? My mind clouds in brief anger. The one thing I have, the one outlet I am granted, and now, _**now**_ of all times, it chooses to stop alleviating my pain?

I slash frantically at my wrist again: four, five, six times. Until all that is left of my arm is a bleeding red mass of painful tissue. Yet, it is still not having the desired effect.

_I have been too careful… Too precautious…_

I switch the blade into my other hand, my fingers wrapping around it tightly. I feel the blade dig into my palm and watch as blood trickles off of honed edge, joining the pool that is dripping off of my lacerated forearm to my feet.

I press the blade to the fresh, untouched skin of my unmarred arm and press down hard, pulling the blade through my tearing flesh deliberately slow. I relish the feeling; it has come back _finally_. Small, calculated wounds will no longer do it, it seems. But, this works.

_Such relief again…_

The blade slips from my fingers and clatters to the ground noisily. I can hardly move my left arm; I slashed at it too many times apparently. It is too injured to respond, too injured to feel. All I know is the stinging sensation that greets me when a renegade water drop meets with the festering skin.

My right arm has gone numb in the cold, and all I can feel there is my pulse, heavy and fast, arrhythmic, bringing with each new throb a fresh wave of blood.

While one arm is numb to the point of incompetence, and the other sore, I am relieved. My treasure has not let me down. It still brings the same satisfaction with it. Granted, it takes more to achieve that satisfaction now, it would seem, but it still does regardless.

Rain falls around me, splattering the roof beneath my feet wildly, but it does not run clear. It is red. And the water pooling around my feet near the drain basin runs a diluted, startlingly bright cherry. It is considerably a bit more than just a faint almost pink tinge of red, as well. It is thick, full-fledged crimson.

_So much red water…_

On impulse alone I turn to my arms. By now, the blood flow should have lessened to almost ceasing, but it continues in a steady river.

_Something is not right._

I place my other hand hurriedly over the wound, wincing at the painful, sudden movement of lacerated flesh. It is going too far. I have to stop it. I concentrate on the wound, but my aura is not responding.

_Damn, damn, damn._

I cannot even tap my Youki!

_Fuck._

_Such a vulgar word. One I hate to have to use. But nothing else fits the void._

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!_

But… I have to stop it; it has gone _way _too far. Even with the pressure applied over the wound with my free hand, blood still drips under it — actually, still streams just as steadily and undisturbed as if my hand were not even over the wound. My free hand is drenched scarlet, no end of the unnatural dyeing in sight. My wounded hand supplies the red, sticky liquid freely, and the white shirt I have on is also seeing the results of it.

My ears go deaf, drowning out the wind and rain together, leaving me wrapped in silence, knowing nothing more than my painfully beating heart, and my swimming vision. And, despite the welling terror in my gut, it is unnatural. There is no buzzing in my ears, no static white noise. Just utter silence. Eerie.

And in the midst of my terrified musings, I am stuck painfully upside the head with a realization I should have come to long ago:

_This isn't satisfaction anymore._

The feeling that the blade brought with it has long since evaporated, leaving me feeling only the one thing I have been trying to avoid, been actively running from this whole time.

I finally feel it…

_It hurts. Thoroughly aches._

My energy gives way, and I feel myself falling, falling, falling. Flying without wings and miserably failing. So much like the fallen angel that I am. Or was. Or never was. Demons — monsters — don't have wings, after all.

I am partially aware of the cold, and wet, and the pain. I know something solid has stopped me in my failed attempt to fly. And everything hurts. But, where everything is, and where I am, I cannot say. It is too hard to keep a level head, to float above the sea of unconscious bliss. All I want to do is go under, take in the silence, the beckoning waves of dreamless sleep.

_Embrace the red ocean I am drifting in…_

_Embrace the darkness._


	10. 4: The Heart Won't Lie

**Price of Forgiveness**

--

_Part I: The Heart Won't Lie_

_To live up to its reputation,The glass rose lives its lie.Hiding its imperfections from the world,It goes on as if nothing were the matter.Perfection comes at a great cost, however.For fooling those fickle few into forgetting its flawsIt, itself cannot forget…Which is, in a way, the greatest flaw of all._

She passed her hands over her face tiredly, finally resting them on her temples and massaging them rigorously. Even though Hatanaka and Shuuichi had been gone the entirety of the day, and much to her thanks still were, it had been an exhausting day.

Well, perhaps not physically exhausting, but mentally. Since the previous afternoon her thoughts had been dwelling nonstop on Shuichi. She was thankful that her family had not been around to see her reaction to his _antics_, and eternally grateful that they were not here now, to see the repercussions of her reaction.

"But, what was I supposed to do…?" she mumbled tiredly, allowing herself to fall back into the plush and welcoming cushions of the reclining chair inhabiting her dank, under-furnished living room. "Whatever it was, that he was doing… it wasn't human… That, that _thing_—" She stopped suddenly. _Thing_? Did she suddenly regard him as no more than a… _thing_?

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter," she assured herself flatly. "He, whoever he was — was not my son." Yet, the words did nothing to assure her of the fact. She had spoken them unsurely, almost reluctantly, as though a part of her knew better, knew otherwise.

Sighing she took up the remote. "I just… need to relax…" She turned it on and watched as the screen flickered after a moment of static. "Maybe watching the evening news will… calm me…"

As the man on the news continued to ramble on in the soothing monotone typical of all news anchors, she began to doze. Somewhere along the time that he brought up the current day's updates she was already watching half-lidded and sleepy, content with the steady thrum of the man's voice drifting through her ears.

"This just in!" the man suddenly erupted, causing her to jump again to full awareness and watch as he continued on. "We've just received word that a young man, appearing high school age, has been admitted into the Nakayama Prefectural General Hospital. Word is that a fellow student found him lying unconscious on the school's roof. According to the witnessing student, the student attends prestigious Meiou High School in eastern Nakayama Prefecture. What a stain to add to their school's name: Student found unconscious and bleeding to death on school roof."

The scene flew from the newscaster's face to the scene of the incident. The area was largely roped off by a yellow string of police line, black spider webs of print fanning across the screen with "police line, do not cross" painted across them. The center of the tiled roof was muddled a dirty crimson and puddles of red ran steadily in the creases of the tiles, draining into the drainage line trailing along the edge of the roof and into the sewers some floors below.

The scene cut back to the newscaster. "There is no word yet if the boy will survive, as we still await the hospital's account. The boy who found and rode with the victim to the hospital identified himself as one Urameshi, Yuusuke, of Sarayashiki Prefectural Junior High School, and has confirmed the identity of the other boy, Minamino, Shuichi of Meiou High. More information as it comes to us in the studio concerning this incident—"

As he continued on with the other stories she stood quickly, almost knocking the recliner backwards in her haste. The newscaster's words were muted in her ears, her thoughts registering naught but his latest report:

_Bleeding to death — Meiou High — Minamino, Shuichi._

As the words registered, they danced a morbid little jig across her thoughts, tap-dancing along her skull. Making a hurried dash to the door she slipped on her shoes cumbersomely and sprinted through the door in a dazed flash.

"Oh, dear God. My boy — _MY BOY,_" fell from her lips as the door slammed behind her.

--

His head rested tiredly in his hands as he rocked unceremoniously back and forth on two of the four legs propping up the rigid, cold hospital chair he had occupied since his arrival there — they would not allow him to see his friend and had promptly ushered him into the hallway where he now sat waiting.

"Damn him. I can't believe this. Can't believe him…" The self-same mantra had been falling miserably off of his lips repeatedly since his arrival there as well. It suited him, and suited the situation; besides, it passed the minutes however dreary. "Damn it."

Another of his companions paced anxiously along the hall; his head hung low, eyes trained on the thin, marginal gray-black carpet lining the otherwise linoleum floor. He had gotten the call from Yuusuke minutes after he had been pulled into this damned hospital, and he himself had rushed here as well. Needless to say, he had been just as successful as Yuusuke when it came to getting to his friend. His failed attempts resigned him to his current pacing. He muttered angrily under his breath, the words best left un-deciphered.

A lock clicked resoundingly; its hollow sound over-exaggerated in the thick silence, hanging like fog over the hall. Instinctively, the two teens look up, acknowledging the source of the sound with eyes of ebony and chestnut, both containing equal parts discomfort, impatience, and anger close to over-boiling.

A middle-aged gentleman in a white overcoat stepped from within the threshold, clipboard tucked securely under his arm; pen safely in his coat pocket. He glanced briefly to the impatient teens eyeing him with an almost vindictive air.

"Well?" Yuusuke demanded, jumping up from the chair and rapping his knuckles impatiently against the wooden sill of the receptionist's box behind him.

The chair fell backwards with the motion and clattered back noisily against the linoleum. The sound made him wince. Kuwabara spared a glance to the man as well, his countenance stony, a deep line set between his eyes.

"Boys," the doctor began mildly, pushing his oval spectacles farther up his nose, "I'm afraid I'm not qualified to divulge that information to you."

"And what does _that_ mean?" Yuusuke shot back, his eyes glazing in anger.

"You are not, I can assume, Mr. Minamino's parent or legal guardian, are you?"

"What's that gotta do with any of this?" Kuwabara asked, coming to Yuusuke's side. His voice was calm, but it held that calm-before-the-storm kind of tone that suggested his patience was wearing thin.

"It has everything to do with it, boys," the doctor sneered, as though amused by their ignorance.

"Well, spit it out then!" Yuusuke demanded, forcibly calm. The vein in his temple throbbed, and his eyebrow twitched as it so often did when he was angry.

"Holding no legal responsibility over the patient, you have no right to know his current state. I'm terribly sorry." Though as he said the words, it was obvious that he wasn't in the least bit sorry.

"Can we at least see him, then?" Yuusuke snarled under his breath.

"I'm afraid not."

"What? Why the hell not!?" he shouted. And suddenly, he was on his feet, his hands balled into fists within the folds of the doctor's meticulously starched and pressed coat. He shook the man furiously, screaming in the man's face. "Why the hell not you sonofa—"

The doctor put his hands around Yuusuke's and pried the coat from his enraged hold, amazingly calm for one on the verge of physical assault. "Dear boy, you are not allowed to see him until the case has been seen to by a parent or legal guardian. You'll have to wait."

"Wait!? What do you think I've been doing, jackass!? I brought him here, isn't that right enough!?" he screamed, his eyes shining in malice, and his hands balled into fists at his side so tightly that they were turning white and twitching with the same itching desire to wrap themselves around the good doctor's throat. God, it was so tempting, he thought.

"Urameshi, calm down. You don't need to make a scene," Kuwabara muttered half-heartedly, placing a steady hand on the shaking raven-haired youth's shoulder.

He too, was fighting an impulse to shove his foot so far up the doctor's dear old — eh, he wouldn't go there — but Yuusuke wasn't about to use any of _his_ self control, and he knew that one of them had to. By process of forced elimination, that made it him, he guessed.

"Quite right," the doctor replied, a sheepish kind of smirk gracing his features. "Control yourself, or I shall have you escorted from the premises."

Yuusuke glared at him, loathing clearly radiating from his features, then turned and stomped back to his chair. He righted it with a stiff, jerky, _my-anger-is-contained-but barely_ sort of movement, and collapsed back into it with a worn expression on his face. "Damn bastard anyways…," he mumbled.

The doctor fixed his ruffled coat collar with an indignant sort of '_humph_' and strode to the receptionist who was watching the entire scene mildly amused.

"Miss Hasako, have you managed to contact Mr. Minamino's residence?"

"I've tried Dr. Masaha, but there came no response when I called," replied the young woman.

"Very well, we shall just have to wait, then." He nodded thoughtfully to himself.

"Did you ever consider that waiting could worsen this ordeal, Fool?" came a cold voice from behind him in venomous tones.

At the voice, he spun around in shock, turning to come face-to-face with an annoyed little black-haired man. Seeing the said man's size, he let out an involuntary chuckle. The tension all-but fell away from him, rippling from his muscles as smoothly as water from a stream.

"Think it's funny, do you?" snarled Hiei, misinterpreting the doctor's reason for laughing. "Well, we'll just see then, won't we?" There was a thin, mutinous smile on his face as he reached for the handle of his concealed katana.

"Oi. Hiei, don't," Yuusuke and Kuwabara yelled, running up to their short companion and grabbing him beneath the arms, dragging him back to the chairs where they sat. "Not now, we don't need it," they muttered.

Hiei 'hn'd.'

Loud echoing footsteps caught their attention and all of them turned expectantly, only to see a pale, frightened-looking, and out of breath Shiori dashing down the hallway towards them all.

"Doctor. Where's… My son…" she huffed, coming to a halt in front of them, not sparing so much as a glance towards the three other people present. They regarded her with curious eyes. Baffled.

"Ah," he smiled. "So you are Mr. Minamino's mother, I take it?"

She nodded, but there was something strained about the movement. Halting. Reluctant.

"Very good, very good." He clapped, then. "I'm afraid that before you can see him, there is some paperwork you must see to regarding his release and other such matters."

Her expression faltered. "But, I had hoped to see him…"

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

She nodded in understanding. "Of course…"

"Hey, Lady," came Yuusuke's voice, ever tactful. "How 'bout you tell this geezer over here—" he pointed sharply at Doctor Masaha, "—that we can see your _son? _We've been waiting forever over here."

For the first time since her arrival, she glanced towards him. The expression on her face was a mix of indignation, puzzlement, and weariness. "You… You're the boy who saved him…?"

Taken aback by the question it took a moment for him to answer. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Oh, dear God…" Her voice broke into stifled sobs, then. "Of course… Yes until… I can… You may… Go on…"

At her permission, Yuusuke beamed, shooting the doctor a victorious look, gaining a scowl of disapproval in return. Not letting himself be told twice, he retreated straight into his friend's room, followed closely by Kuwabara and Hiei. The door shut behind the three of them and none spared so much as a second glance back at the angry doctor, or the broken women in the hall behind them.

--

Mildly curious as to how I had ended up in this place, I resign myself to waiting until some better-informed person comes to call. Until then, I have to appease myself by finding amusement in my room. I do not have time, however, for within seconds my door opens and in step three of my friends. My attention turns to them. One part angry, one unawares, and one seemingly indifferent. How terribly predictable.

Hiei stands behind the others a way, and retreats to my window in a fluid movement and a fluttering of cloak. He directs his gaze to the street below, unable to meet my gaze, if not just studiously avoiding it. I can, perhaps, hazard a guess as to why. Best not to, though, knowing how he would react to the insinuation. Kuwabara and Yuusuke pull themselves into the empty visitor's chairs near my bed, all their eyes on me. Unsettling but bearable, at least. Now, if only Hiei would look my way.

Silence befalls us, and it is not the comfortable, companionable silence that should fall between us, between friends. It is the painful, accusatory silence; the one where things aren't said, for fear of causing pain to one another, but they are thought — spoken, if you will, in the silence. Through the silence. What do they say about silence being the loudest sound, after all?

I assume they have had something to say — anything — but it seems I am wrong. They merely sit, watching me. Like I am some sort of lunatic who, once they have removed their gazes for so much as a second, will fly at them, knife in hand. Hardly flattering. But, I have nothing to say, myself. I have no reason to speak. That chore falls to them, though they are neglecting it as well. So what am I to do but accept their cautious gazes?

"Well…" Yuusuke mutters after a few minutes silence, his voice weak and coarse.

"Hmm?" I reply mildly, my attention lingering only slightly on him.

"What'd you do it for?" he asks. All at once his voice rises. I can tell he is trying to stave off his anger towards me, only partially successful in his attempt.

I had, of course, expected the question. I wondered myself why I chose to do what I did; yet I could find no tangible reason, and still cannot. So I stay silent, a mild expression held on my features. An expression that after years of perfecting as Youko, I know can be taken to mean everything or nothing.

"Damn it, Kurama, why?!" he repeats heatedly.

He reaches into his pocket and draws from within it a small, sleek metal fragment; its natural silver sheen stained a dull, but inexorably vivid crimson. My eyes fall as I see it.

_So, he took it, then?_

A moment of calm, rational thought on my part reasons that it was surely to keep the people at the scene now from finding it, and from discovering my truth.

For taking it, I should thank him.

For shoving the inexcusable proof of my sin right under my nose again, I would rather throttle him.

Kuwabara almost chokes when he sees the razor, which I find odd. But in his defense, I suppose he had not known about it, either. So, I cannot be so unjustly surprised.

"No way…" he gapes, eyes lingering transfixed on the blade, as though he has never seen anything quite like it. Or, like a child in a candy shop, for lack of a better metaphor.

I close my eyes and turn from them, much as I am able in the hospital bed, and sigh; such a weary sound pulled from my very soul. An interrogation seems unavoidable at the present, yet I would still rather pretend that it did not have to occur. I simply am not in the mood for the idle questions.

"Kurama answer me, damn it!" Yuusuke yells.

I turn to him then, mostly in response to his anger and rising core temperature. I can feel the heat radiating off of him. Dangerous. Best to keep my eyes on him. By time he has my full attention, he has half-risen from his chair and made an advance towards me.

I am spared the need to defend myself by another's eloquent words, much more powerful than his own building fury.

"Touch him, Detective, and you _will_ know pain," Hiei snarls coolly from the window. He has his hand on the hilt of his blade, almost casually. _Almost_.

_I know better than to entirely think so. Hopefully, Yuusuke knows better, as well._

He has not made a move to stop Yuusuke. He has not even turned from the window. But his words are more than enough to stop Yuusuke dead in his tracks, and cause him to sink back into the chair with an exhausted sigh.

_Apparently, he does._

Hiei's words speak worlds when he will not. It is a quality of his that makes him almost transparent, but not quite. I am grateful for it, and I am boundlessly thankful for his friendship. Or, whatever the bond between us is. I know he, at least, understands me, on some fundamental level.

"Why…" I mutter thoughtfully, in part a response to his prior inquiries. "I do not know, Yuusuke." I shrug, wincing at the tug of the IV as I move my arms. "My reasons are far from tangible, and you would not understand them, yourself."

Judging from the look on his face, I warrant it is not what he had wanted to hear. He glares openly at me, but says nothing. Smart of him.

"Now…" I stop, turning to glance towards them, sincerely looking at them for the first time since their arrival in my hospital room.

"Yeah?" Kuwabara asks.

"Now, it is time I had my questions answered."

Yuusuke looks startled, the anger momentarily gone from him in lieu of curiosity, but nods regardless; Kuwabara says nothing, as he is as ever unaware. I catch Hiei's eye. He knows what I am going to ask, I can see it. But he does nothing.

"How did you know where to find me?" I ask. Indeed, I do not understand how he had found me. I know he had. The kind doctors had filled me in on that much. But as to the specifics, I do not know.

"You told me you'd meet me and Keiko back at my place at five-thirty, remember?" Although it comes out as a question, I do not answer. I know he is not looking for me to. "When you didn't show up, I figured I'd come find ya. And, I checked your school 'cause you're always there. I was right, I guess." In an attempt to lighten the mood on his part, he shrugs. It is a wasted effort.

I nod; it makes sense. I had told him I would meet him, and then I hadn't. I am not one to normally break a promise. In hindsight, you might say that I am the type, because lying can in a sense be breaking a promise. But, there is a difference, to the well-educated mind, no matter how subtle.

"I see." Then, I voice my second question, which had been nagging me since I awoke here. "Why did you save me?" I try to hide the unease in my voice as I say it, but I cannot. The words taste foreign. _Save me_. Honestly, I never thought I would ever, _**ever **_utter those words in my life.

I see him bristle in anger again as my words register with him. Again, I suppose the question I asked is one he does not want to hear. "Kurama… You idiot…," he voices through gritted teeth.

"Why wouldn't he save you, man?" Kuwabara asks in Yuusuke's stead. I suppose he intends it as a rhetorical question, but I am far from in the mood to play along with his attempted philosophical inclinations. I am ready with my calm retort:

"I did not ask why he would not save me. I asked why he would. I still await an answer," I reply tiredly, the beginnings of fatigue falling over me.

And as suddenly as the realization of my bodily weariness hits home, and all at once, I find myself longing for sleep, deep and drugged. I want to lie back in the antiseptic-perfumed, hypo-allergenic pillows and drift away. But, I will not allow my body to take control over me. Humans and demons alike have higher brain function for a reason, and I shove the inclination to the back of my mind. Later I will let myself fall prey to my lower mentality. Right this moment, however, I have things to see to.

I hear Hiei chuckle from the window at my reply. He knew all-to-well it was coming. Yuusuke however, did not find it nearly as amusing. Though, I suppose Hiei's lingering threat keeps him from acting on his annoyance. Otherwise, I have no doubt that he would have jumped me already.

"Why?" he spits, disgust evident in his tone. "Why did I?" he repeats. He falls silent then, his eyes falling to his knees, because now he too, cannot meet my eyes. When he continues, I hear his voice turn soft, almost saddened. "I really thought you were smarter than that, man, I really did. Especially after all this time. I mean, two years may not be much. But it should' a been enough."

He falls silent, seeming reluctant to go on, so I hedge, "Yuusuke, I'm waiting."

This prompts a bitter laugh and a half-hearted shrug. "I dunno. I guess it doesn't mean much to you. I guess your only allegiance with us is this whole teamwork crap Koenma and Genkai preach about. I'd thought it would' a been more, but I guess you've just played me for a fool like the rest of us, ne?"

My gaze lingers on him steadily, waiting for him to continue, but he does not. His voice merely falters into silent weeping; I can smell the salt on the air, mingling with the bitter hospital smells. Not an entirely pleasant mixture.

_Yuusuke crying? What a new development._

Kuwabara is looking almost dumbstruck at Yuusuke's curled in form, not believing that he has been reduced to tears. I do not blame him. Even I had not expected this show from Yuusuke. Anger? Yes. Violence? Yes. Hysterics? A definite possibility. But, crying?

Surprisingly, I do not blame him for his reaction.

Actually, Kuwabara himself has not said hardly more than two sentences since their arrival. Rude as it sounds, it actually makes me wonder why he even bothered to come in. But I suppose the same holds true for Hiei, and I do not wish him gone in the least.

"Yuusuke, you have yet to answer my question," I remind him shortly, growing tired of his display and his lack of tangible answers.

He turns to face me again; red streaks on his cheeks, a few tears trailing down them silently. His eyes are liquid as coffee itself, full of unspoken loathing and grief. They reflect such pain and such disbelief, like he cannot understand how I can even ask such answers of him at a time like this.

"Forget it man, forget it." He shakes his head roughly, his bangs spraying his face wildly. "If you don't already understand _"why?"_ you're beyond my reach." He shrugs in what I think is supposed to be a noncommittal way and wipes dry his face, his tough-guy act back with a vengeance.

A gentle knock on my door catches my attention making me turn momentarily from Yuusuke. It is an all-to-familiar knock, and a pattern that I recognized at once. My mother's knock. Followed by her timid voice asking if she can _please _come in.

Yuusuke takes this chance to stand and heads to the door. Kuwabara follows silently after him, still shocked into silence at his best friend's behavior. Hiei turns to the door, but does not move from my window. He scowls openly at the door as the two boys exit and Shiori — my mother — enters.

"Oh, Shuichi!" my mother cries, hurrying to my side as soon as she can lay her warm, chocolate brown eyes upon me.

As she advances, Hiei steps between us, loathing etched deeply, almost painfully, into each of his sharp, striking features. She stops, wary.

"Hn." Woman, don't give me that acting crap," he spits, glaring at her.

She actually recoils at the words as he spits them, almost like they are truly as venomous as he makes them sound. I want to tell Hiei to stop, that this _is_ my _mother_ he is talking to, but the hurt of the past day is too fresh and keeps me from opening my mouth just yet.

"I know damn well that this is _your_ doing. No matter how much your precious _son_ denies it, and in spite of the lies he's force-fed the other buffoons, I know otherwise. I know the _**truth**_. It's your fault he's here. And _**now**_ you rush in here, ready to accept him with open arms? Don't make me laugh. You're such fickle fools; you damn ningens. If anything, he should forgive you—"

"Hiei," I cut across him gently, my tone firm. "That is quite enough, thank you," I finally intone, my voice stern. If I do not stop him now I never will. Best nip it in the bud while I can.

As much as I appreciate the words, and find myself stunned by the sudden truth and gravity of them, not to mention _his_ understanding of the situation, it is not his time nor place to say so.

"Hn." He shrugs, turning from my mother to me. For the first time since his arrival, he looks me in the eye. There is some distant emotion in the fiery depths of them, but I cannot place it. Before I can ponder it, he speaks, to the point as ever:

"I'll be seeing you later, Kurama. The Detective and the Oaf got to speak their share, and I'm still entitled to mine." He turns and darts from the room, my door shutting with a slam.

_That was… abrupt._

_And quite to the point, unsurprisingly._

"Mother, have a seat," I offer, motioning to the now empty chairs occupying my bedside, shaking aside Hiei's departure and turning to her.

She nods and sits, dissolving into tears as she does. She takes one of my hands in hers and brushes her thumb over it gently in soothing circles — more to soothe herself than me — as she tries to compose herself. I suppose she has some trouble, as all her eyes find to linger upon are the bandages wrapped firmly, almost painfully, about my left forearm, stained the most vivid crimson, and my right wrist, the bandages stained the self-same rustic red.

_Blood lets the most beautiful blossoms bloom across white canvases,_ I muse after finding myself staring at the bandages in time with mother.

"Shuichi… I'm so sorry… I could've… l-lost you… I'm so… sorry…" she sobs, taking one of my hands in hers. She continues tracing her thumb over the top of my hand gently until she can regroup herself.

Before I can prepare myself for it, she stands up and pulls me into a tight embrace, her tears falling onto my shoulder undisturbed. I wince in pain as she presses against the I.V. shoved into the top of my hand, but pass off my pain as an exaggerated cough. Years in Makai and hundreds of hard lessons learned have made me an expert at hiding pain. In Makai, showing pain could mean the end of you. Showing pain here could mean the metaphorical end of her. Not really a pleasant alternative.

With some fidgeting and careful maneuvering on my part, I manage to put my arms around her fragile form. I stroke her hair reassuringly, whispering reassuring words into her hair until she can collect herself. Awkward as I am at showing such displays, it is the least I can do.

After a few minutes, she pulls away. Her eyes are red and swollen, her face tear-streaked. When she speaks, her voice is weak and coarse from the tears. "I'm so sorry… Shuichi… I, I love you… I always will… You _**are**_ my _**son**_… I…" She cuts off, fighting for control over a fresh onslaught of tears.

I look at her thoughtfully and slowly, hesitantly, nod. There had been a time when I had believed her words, believed her. But, now I know otherwise.

"I know, Mother. I know…," I reply gently, my gaze dropping from her face. Because suddenly, I cannot meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry… I just—"

"There is no need to apologize, Mother," I sigh, reaching towards the table beside my bed.

I am grateful for the potted plant gracing my presence. I guess it is a small blessing that hospitals recognize the healing nature that plants can have on people, and therefore allow them inside hospital rooms. It is no small miracle. And, it shall make all of this much easier. I pluck a dandelion-like flower from its planter, careful not to damage the young shoot.

"Shuichi…?" Mother's voice is weak, and I can see some of the terror of the forgone night mirrored in her pale eyes as she watches me. Apparently, she has not gotten used to my ability to manipulate plants. That is no small wonder, either.

I ignore her and hold the flower to the light. Partially to examine it and to assure myself it is the proper genus for me to utilize, and partially so that she will not catch its silver glow as I turn it into something more useful for myself. I pull it back into the shadows and blow on it gently, watching as a cloud of faint golden pollen spores drift through the air and dance around my startled-looking mother on the nonexistent, metaphysical breeze. Soon, the spores will take effect; they have already begun to disperse, which means it will work.

Dream Flower Pollen has served me faithfully when the time came to wipe Kitajima, Maya of her memory of me, and now, is working just as steadily on mother. The pollen sends them into a dreamless slumber and wipes their memories of whatever I deem fit. When they wake, they will not remember anything. In this case, she will forget having seen me manifest my powers and casting me out of her life.

Of course, that changes very little. She will still know about my escapades with the blade and the ancient art of blood letting, as will the others; or at least Hiei will still know. Whether or not he actually told, or plans to tell, Yuusuke and Kuwabara the truth, I do not know.

She falls limp, resting against my shoulder as sleep takes hold of her. Quietly, I summon the plants to draw an empty chair to me, so that I may shift her into it. Once I do, the chair moves back into place and I disperse the plants, my eyes falling sadly on my mother's face, calm in the peace of sleep.

"It is best that you forget, Mother," I whisper softly. "Because, at least you can."

A wistful smile turns my lips up and I find myself staring unblinkingly, once again, at the bandages. "The others know and will not forget, and neither will I. Life will go on with a semblance of the normalcy it once possessed for you."

I drag my eyes from the bandages and force myself to look at mother. And, for the first time in years, I know they eyes I am forcing myself to regard her with are not filled with love, but disappointment, as I whisper, heavily:

"You will continue loving me unconditionally, never knowing that you have disowned me." A thin, tight smile plays at the corner of my lips.

"You are entitled to forget…"

_However, for me, it is another story. I must live in the face of these lies. Live, knowing all-to-well what has happened in the past of which you will have no more memory once you wake._

For you, it shall be no more than a dream, one that shall pass with the new dawn.

_For me, it is a living nightmare, and a hell from which I see no escape._

_Again, blame befalls the karma boomerang…_

But, such is life, and at least one of us can escape it.

_Shame it isn't me…_


	11. 4: Rhyme & Reason

_**Price of Forgiveness**_

_--_

_Part II: Rhyme & Reason_

_Existing in only shadows,It shies away from the light.Continuing the façade it remains in darkness,Remains bound to the lies,Just so that people will be fooled.And in the hopes that it can fool itself,It remains in shadows, hiding from the light,Hiding from the truth…_

_Plip… Plip… Plip…_

My gaze follows along slowly as another minute bead of pale yellow liquid oozes through the transparent tube of my I.V., feeding slowly into my arm. Another steady droplet follows its course, trailing slowly through the tube only to disappear into my veins. I find it mildly ironic that the nurses who handled the bag containing this foreign substance wore gloves. As though it were some sort of dangerous contagion. Yes, that is right: dangerous. And they just force it into my body regardless.

A tired sigh escapes my lips and I train my gaze steadily back onto the contraption feeding into me. Having been attached to such a miserable human medical device is bothersome enough. However, much to my displeasure, the set up they have leaves me little room to move comfortably, forcing me to lie bed-ridden in this less-than-comfortable hospital bed.

Watching the idle droplets course a steady flow through the I.V. drip is the only amusement they have left me, really. As far as entertainment goes, they could have done much better.

Such a miserable way to pass the dragging hours…

The shuffling of a wooden pane draws my attention, and I turn towards the window. Sliding through the opening with the boneless grace of a cat, Hiei pulls himself into my room through the space he has left himself. He pushes the window further open until the pane disappears behind the drawn-back curtains dangling limply from their rod. Then, he settles himself upon the opened ledge leisurely.

He had, of course, told me that he would be seeing me later. However, I had assumed that meant on another day. Tomorrow perhaps. Not tonight. Visiting hours had ended hours ago, after all. Though, this _is _Hiei, so I suppose such trivial human rituals hardly mean a thing to him.

I nod towards him in silent acknowledgement.

"How've you fared?" he asks indifferently, arms crossed, one leg spilling over the window ledge. If he is at all uncomfortable, it does not show. "You've been kept occupied, I suppose?"

"Well enough," I reply curtly, nodding. "Never the dull moment here, you know," I add as an afterthought, reflecting on the foregone hours bitterly. A low, harsh laugh rolls off my tongue.

In truth, with all the time spent being poked and prodded with needles, the blood transfusions and the reprimands from my mother before she left and the doctors' afterwards, there has not been a dull moment in the last hours. I would have preferred a dull moment to what I have received, however.

_But such is my luck._

He nods slowly. "Right. What's that foolish contraption they've got you tied to?" he asks, his eyes falling on the I.V. drip hanging over my bed, and the tube winding its way down to me.

"An I.V. drip. It is nothing more than a foolish human medical contraption; nothing to worry about," I reply dryly, eyeing the machine with distaste as I speak.

"Nothing to worry about?" he repeats mildly, his eyes narrowing. "So then why did they move that ridiculous thing from your hand to your arm?"

I shake my head, suppressing a slight chuckle. I had been foolish to believe he would not notice the change. In due time he had, which is no less than I expected, really. The I.V. had been moved from its lodging in the top of my hand, to the inner portion of my arm where the elbow joint comes together.

"I did say there has not been a dull moment," I reply slowly.

"You're avoiding the question, Fox. And what have the buffoons done to your hand?" he prompts, his gaze flying to my free hand and the area of purple-blue bruising that has blossomed there.

"I do not care for being poked and prodded with these human contraptions," I sigh, shrugging as freely as the I.V. allows me to. "They are troublesome; many of my plants work far more quickly, and they are more conventional."

"That's not what I asked," he reminds me simply, his voice taking on a hardened tone.

"True," I concede.

When I say nothing more, he glares. "Well, spit it out." Patience never was his top virtue.

I laugh, despite myself at his impatience. I know it sounds petty, but getting a rise out of him is just so much fun; and I can use the entertainment.

"As I said, I do not care to be attached to such human devices." I motion towards the I.V. drip with a small tilt of my head. "The I.V. included."

"So you've established," he snipes angrily, thrumming his fingers methodically against his crossed forearms — a sign of growing agitation. "Get to it, Kurama." _Pushy, pushy._

"So, each time they—" I have to bite my tongue before I say something loathsome "— the people that think they are intelligent enough to pass as medical practitioners — stuck it into me, I pulled it out."

He gives me a look, something reminiscent of surprise or disbelief in his eyes.

A thin smile spreads over my lips as I continue. "The nurses who came in here every few minutes to check on me would take notice of the dangling I.V. needle, its contents dripping off into nothingness onto the floor, replace it with a sterile needle, and shove it back into my arm."

I see the beginnings of an amused smile working its way over Hiei's lips and he shakes his head as he intones, "Don't tell me—"

I nod, knowing he knows as well as I where this is going. "This went on for some time, and eventually, the weakened vein in my hand collapsed, so they had to move the I.V." I shrug lightly as I finish. The motion is supposed to be easy, but strung up to the machine as I am, it makes me wince.

Hiei chuckles knowingly, the smile ticking wider at his lips, an ember of amusement flickering in his eyes. No doubt he is thinking, _that's Kurama for you. Ever practical._ "So why haven't you pulled it out again?"

"Look more closely," I answer, nodding towards my arm in disgust. "They have shoved the I.V. into my vein and wrapped the bandages from my arm over it so that I cannot get to it again."

Silence befalls us after my explanation. The ceaseless tide of the liquid in the I.V. drip drones onward tirelessly, the continuing _plip… plip… plip…_ echoing painfully through the stilled air.

"Your _Youki_ has almost been tapped dry, Kurama. Why?" His voice is distant and the question is asked in such an off-handed manner that I must take a moment to think whether he actually expects an answer.

In my contemplating he has turned from me to stare out the window again. There must be something truly fascinating out there for him to be staring so pointedly.

The question startles me slightly, catching me unaware. "It requires a good deal of energy to keep Youko at bay," I reply lightly, keeping my voice measured.

"Keep him at bay?" The words are barked, and they startle me. "Why do you hold him back?" he asks, his voice threatening to betray some of his curiosity.

"This is my life to live, and I shall follow through how I see fit," I shrug stiffly, failing to make it an amiable gesture. "Youko has no grounds to interfere."

"Hn. Humanity has robbed you of your sense. You've become foolish, Kurama," he snaps, the familiar bite in his tone back again, overlaying the curiosity. It makes me stop to wonder why he is even angry. This is no business of his; and what I do with Youko has no bearing on him whatsoever.

"This is _my_ life. Youko will not intervene," I repeat sharply, my voice dropping an octave to reinforce my meaning.

"You've become weak, Kurama. Your human sentimentality will be your undoing," he voices through gritted teeth, his eyes flashing in restrained anger.

"Weak?" I hiss, eyes narrowing in anger, my mouth thinning into a tight line.

_What right does __**he**__ of all people have to call __**me**__ weak?_

"That's right," he shoots back angrily. "You succumb to emotions far too easily. See how quickly you were to anger after one comment?" He jabs an accusatory finger at me. "You care too much; that you care at all should be your undoing."

"So what if I care, Hiei? What business is it of yours?" I prompt, anger seeping into the words.

He stops for a moment at my words, a brief moment; then he spits: "_**Youko**__ never cared_," with such unabated loathing, such venom in his tone, that all that follows the proclamation is a ringing silence.

The words slap me in the face and I reel back in shock. _What?_ I feel a tight knot of dread welling in my stomach, writhing sickly, making me want to wretch suddenly. He had said it with such undisguised… What? Hatred? Loathing. _How could he? _But it positively hurts. Suddenly something in my very soul, my very core, aches. It is all I can do not to cry out, it hurts so thoroughly.

"I am no longer Youko, Hiei," I whisper dryly after a few minutes of silence. I am surprised to find that my voice sounds mostly normal.

"I know that," he snaps, sounding affronted. _Good._

"Then why not accept it?"

"Accept? What's there to accept?" he asks annoyed, dodging the question in a manner all-too-familiar to me. But now I am not in the mood to play his games.

"That I am _**not**_ the same being I was when we first met," I reply tiredly, shaking my head. "People change, Hiei. Circumstances change."

"Only if you let them," he argues. "You've become weak, Kurama. You're nothing like Youko. You're not like the person I came to know back then."

Something stirs inside me at his words. Truth, maybe? If it is, I have accepted it, so why is it so difficult for him? I reply, "I am not that same person who you met back then."

"You admit it." He looks pleased at this.

I shake my head and a sigh slips past my lips. "But that means nothing. It holds no significance to anything, Hiei. Nothing relevant, at least."

"It does," he replies; and the bitterness in those two syllables is almost thick enough to make me choke. It is his turn to shake his head. "It changes everything. I don't know the person you've become." There is something in his voice that sounds almost regretful at the last.

"So get to know the person I've become!" I challenge sharply, my tone betraying me by adopting a hint of the pain flowering from my soul.

He turns on the sill then, like he intends to leave. _Just like that._

"Admit it, Hiei," I yell, emotion finally breaking the restraints my conscious has long laid upon it and sending them clattering to the floor. "You care nothing for me — not for the human me — only Youko!" I continue, cursing silently under my breath that the damned contraption I am hooked to. As I make a move towards him the painful sting of the I.V. needle in my vein pulls me back in unwilling and grudging defeat. I take it as an incentive to calm myself again.

"What does it matter?" he asks indifferently. Icicles hang on his words.

"It matters a lot, Hiei," I reply, my voice dropping into a softer tone.

"Nothing matters." The retort is followed by a violent shake of his head.

"Everything matters Hiei. You matter, I matter," I intone gently.

"It has no reason to matter," he mutters thickly. There is something painful about his tone of voice.

"I suppose there isn't a _tangible_ reason, no," I allow, watching his turned back carefully.

A hollow laugh travels the length of the room, then. "Just as there isn't a _tangible_ reason for me to be wasting my time here."

And just like that, the words are out. And they whip over me sharply, painfully.

Something in my chest explodes at the realization of his words. Because it is the truth. For him, there is no reason. No feeling, no nothing. For him, it is just that simple. Just a matter of turning his back. Nothing more.

He turns, his hands clenching reflexively over the window pane, his knuckles turning pale white.

"Hiei..." My throat is tight and his name comes out sounding strangled, as though a pair of hands have wrapped themselves around my throat and are attempting to squeeze the life from me.

He turns his head back, eyes slightly narrowed as they glance half-heartedly at me. "What?" he snaps impatiently.

"Would you turn your back so easily on a comrade?" There is a tremble in the words and silently, I curse myself for the unintentional display of weakness it shows.

"And if I did?"

I remain silent at his retort. My thoughts spin in vicious circles, bouncing painfully along the inside of my skull, trying to think of something to tell him. But, what am I entitled to say? If he does turn his back on me, that is my problem, and his choice. I am not one to influence another's actions. It is really not my place to, after all.

He scoffs at my silence and turns to leave.

"Would you turn your back on _me_?" I ask slowly, fighting to keep my voice calm. Leveled.

At my words he stops, suddenly rigid. There is a fraction of a moment where he is silent. It lasts barely a second, but feels an eternity. Then slowly, he says: "Wasted words."

"You are only afraid, Hiei," I accuse softly, turning away from him. I let a mass of my hair veil my vision, hide him from my sights.

"Don't be foolish, what would I be afraid of?" he replies coldly, a harsh laugh trailing the words.

"Can you really be so blind?" I shake my head slowly.

"What would I be afraid of?!" he demands. And although I cannot see his face presently — cannot allow myself to gaze upon him — I know he is glaring. And I know if I look, I will find anger there, burning deep and unguarded in his eyes.

"Your feelings, Hiei," I venture softly, the sentiment tinged with sadness and the trickle of a derisive laugh.

"Who are you to speak to me about my emotions, Fox?" The words sound constricted, like he is speaking through gritted teeth. I hear the dull 'thud' of his fist slamming against the window pane.

"You trusted Youko, because you and he were one in the same," I continue slowly, keeping my tone light. He knows as well as I that the words are true. "But now, Youko is gone. Replaced by me — _a human _— the very beings you despise with a passion."

"And if I despise them, as you say," he throws back at me, "why are you so surprised that I would — that I could — so easily turn my back on you, Fox? Listen to yourself."

"Yet, you have feelings for me, Hiei," I reply softly. The words are almost tentative, unsure.

"Are you so sure of that, Kura—?"

"—Feelings of trust, camaraderie, friendship," I cut across him resolutely.

If he is angry, let him be. Right now, my intent goes beyond angering him and beyond making him open his eyes. I merely want to say my share, lest the opportunity not fall before me again.

"You say this as if you _know_, Kurama," he snaps. Following his remark, the dull thrumming of his fingers along the pane hum through the silence.

So, he may well be angry, but from his outward actions I think I have afforded myself at least a few more minutes of his time. The impatient gesture serves to show that he is listening. Grudgingly, perhaps; but he is listening nonetheless.

"You cannot bring yourself to accept it. You are afraid that just because I have become a human, I will turn into one of them and hurt you. _That_ is why you want me to become Youko once more."

"Don't kid yourself," he snorts in disgust.

"Then tell me, Hiei," I suggest mildly, taking a moment to shift my gaze to him for the first time in several minutes. "If I am so off in my assumptions, then tell me how I am wrong," I urge. "_Talk_ to me."

"You are being naïve, Kurama. Foolish. _Stupid_."

"Maybe it is stupid," I allow. "But it _is_ the truth, and you know it," I add firmly.

"It's not the truth. The _truth_ is simply that I can't stand you," he shoots back sharply, his temper finally getting the better of him. In his defense, he actually held out longer that I would have thought.

Even though it is just his anger making him say such things, the words still stab into me painfully. In response, I can feel my chains on Youko shifting, writhing. He is responding to the dull ache that Hiei's words have elicited in my soul. To keep my own emotions in check, I stay silent, falling for the second time into a quiet reverie to gather my thoughts.

"You are _lying_," I sigh deeply, take a steadying breath of stale hospital air. "Stop lying to yourself, Hiei. For the love of Inari, stop."

"Hn." The swish of material registers in my ears and I hear fabric and substance scratch along a wooden surface. "Think as you please. I'm through here."

Then, he is gone. Just like that. Leaving me looking after him, searching the depths of the night with blind eyes for traces of him. Yet, I know I will not find him just as surely as I know he will not return. His pride or his stubbornness will keep him away. Just as they always have and always will. As it is, some aspects of a person _never _change, no matter how much time or distance is thrown at them.

I shiver, suddenly cold. The night air sweeping through the room from the window he has left open is balmy; not exceedingly hot, but not really cold either. In fact, it should be pleasant. The shiver that escapes me is not in response to the cold of night, however. It is from the cold of abandonment, if you will.

_I have finally done it._

_My split heritage has finally turned on me, casting me from both worlds I exist in. Or, existed in, as I hardly feel alive at the present._

My demonic soul has turned against me. I lost mother and any aspect of human nature solely by being a half-breed. And now, even the half-breeds have turned on me, leaving in disgust at my human sentimentality. It has driven away my family, and now my closest friend. Or perhaps friend is the wrong term. But it has certainly driven away the one being nearest to understanding me.

_Damn Enma and damn that Karma boomerang…_

Finding myself staring blankly out the open window, I search slowly for any familiar stars. Faint glimpses are visible from my position: Inari, the Fox God Star, and the North Star in the far-off distance. Aside from the moon, those pale silver slivers are all that light up the darkened night sky.

It is sad really; from the city it is never dark enough to see the stars properly, and I miss them dearly. Seeing any at all should be a treat, but I cannot help missing Makai; the nights were always illuminated by countless numbers of stars…

I once heard that stars were souls. Souls of all our dearly departed, watching over us. Knowing of Reikai, of course that theory is not but allusion and belief, but sometimes I wonder about that. If they are souls, drifting there for no other reason then say, being lost, what will become of my soul?

Will Enma pity me for leading such a despaired existence; will I be punished for the self-same reason? Or will I simply be cast aside as I have always been, left to wander forever as one of those stars?

Because, looking back on it… I have lost my family, any stability I had in this world, and now I have driven away the one person who understands me because life has thrown us the same obstacles.

If I was not before, assuredly now that has changed.

_Now, I am definitely one of those stars…_

_One of those lost souls…_

_Damned to drift with no rhyme and no reason in this infinite universe for Eternity._


	12. 4: Burning Bridges

_**Price of Forgiveness**_

_--_

_Part III: Burning Bridges_

_Fate is a fickle creature,And the hourglass dictating our livesIs bolted down firmly in the hands of Fate.For us, who have a minimal say in our passing,Time can be altered ever so slightly,And Fate re-written.But for an innate object time passes regardless,It holds no say.Time erodes it; scars it,So that the glass will splinter,Will be lost to time,With no hopes of retribution._

Shifting uncomfortably in the hospital bed, I strain to find a fitting position to rest in, though with the troublesome I.V., finding comfort seems impossible. I sigh in resignation and struggle to open my eyes. My eyelids feel as though they each have one-ton weights attached to them and forcing them apart is a tedious and mildly painful thing. Lately, trivialities like breathing have become a chore.

Pale slivers of light greet my eyes as I manage opening them to a half-lidded state, and through the small squinting space I have left myself to gaze out of, I see two figures striding diligently around the room. I push myself carefully into a sitting position, being mindful of the I.V., and my unexplainable exhaustion.

One of the figures turns to me then, her brown eyes gleaming as they fall upon me. Her gaze seems friendly and warm enough, but as she speaks, her words come out crisp and orderly. Clearly, she is not at all happy with me.

_I do not suppose anyone is happy with me for what I did. I cannot expect them to be now._

"Mr. Minamino, now that you are finally up, there are things to be discussed," she informs me impatiently. Her manner is professional, but she can definitely use some lessons on proper bedside manner, I conclude, hoping my obvious disgust is not as apparent to her as it is to myself.

"Are there?" I reply mildly, fighting back the bite in my tone. I must tread carefully here, and with the utmost respect.

"Yes," she replies matter-of-factly, offering a sharp nod that makes the knot of the bun centered on the back of her head bob.

I shift again, this time less watchful of the I.V. The all-too-familiar sting of the slender needle stabbing into my vein makes itself known once more and I wince slightly, acknowledging its continued, however irritating, presence. Then, turning my attention to her, I settle in respectfully. Something tells me this is going to take a while.

"Mr. Minamino," she begins again, snappishly. "When a sample taken of your blood was taken from the scene of investigation it was sent to our medical lab for examination." She stops, as though allowing me time — which I do not require — to absorb this interesting tidbit of information.

I nod curtly, pressing my hands together in my lap and twining my fingers. An age-old gesture of mine; a creature comfort of sorts for me, I suppose.

"Then, when we went about finding you a matching donor for you blood transfusion, you may well remember us taking another sample of your blood." It is worded as a question, but spoken as a mere statement; as the fact that it is.

"I remember," I reply slowly, recalling with a pang of seething anger at how much I had adamantly refused them, fought them.

I believe my logic followed a thought mirroring this: _I let my own blood run in free accord — my own blood. Why, in the sweet name of Inari, would I want someone else's forced into my veins?_

In the end, I lost that particular battle. It appears that minors are not entitled to make their own medical decisions. Even less, minors with suspected mental disorders that would account for irrational masochism and self-destructive behaviors.

_No surprise._

She nods again. "Yes. Well, when the fresh sample was taken into the lab for examination, we discovered some… _abnormalities_… in your blood's distribution… So to say."

"_Abnormalities_?" I repeat thoughtfully. Surly, the Youkai soul at my core cannot be discovered through means of a menial human blood test? Now my interests are piqued.

"Precisely." She nods again, the barest tilting of her head. "And before we can draw any conclusions, we need to run a few more tests."

She falls silent and I open my eyes more fully to take in her entire figure. Pale brown hair bundled into a neat knot in the back of her head, oval-framed glassed perched jauntily on her nose, and no-nonsense brown eyes. To top off the attire, a white overcoat, boasting a blue ballpoint pen — which sticks out, point down, in her coat pocket, a clipboard held securely under her arm, and an air of unprecedented knowledge.

I suppose I can take her word for it. She seems professional enough, as far as professional goes by ningen standards, to know what she is talking about.

"Of course," I begin after studying her intently for a few moments longer. "You must do as you see fit, after all. Who am I to tell you how to do your job?"

_Though there is no arguing that I undoubtedly know more about medicine than you feeble ningens can ever hope to — but that is not arrogance on my part. Just a fact._

"Glad to see we agree, then."

She offers up a tight smile. If she means for it to be comforting or some such thing, she has some work to do — far from comforting; it makes my skin crawl.

Then, she continues on: "Well, now that you have consented, Doctor Masaha would like to take some more blood samples, among other things. That is all, Mr. Minamino. Good day." She lowers her head in the mandatory respectful bow and stalks out of the room.

_Good day? _The irony is not lost on me. Yes. More tests and more annoying humans prodding and poking me ceaselessly…_._

_This will be a good day, indeed._

Now, the other figure that has been lurking in the shadowed confines of these quarters makes himself known, introducing himself as _the_ Doctor Masaha.

Without another word, he sets about checking my bandages — long since stained in the most vivid of crimsons I have ever seen. Then, he takes up my wrists; checking the pulse at various points, presumably; next he straps an annoying cloth about my arm and inflates it to the point were I am leery that he is going to cut off any circulation I have — corresponding pulse included therein. Studying the figures the contraption spews he considers them briefly and then unhooks the I.V., much to my pleasure.

As the syringe comes out a small bubble of blood issues from the punctured vein. He dabs a cotton ball into some foreign liquid and hands it to me, instructing me to apply it to the puncture wound with gentle pressure. I do so grudgingly, wrinkling my nose in disgust at the foul-smelling cotton ball.

He then goes about readying another needle, my suspicious gaze following him steadily. Placing it momentarily on my bedside table, he begins to unravel the bandages around my most severely lacerated arm. He inspects the damage — the skin is red and inflamed. Open wounds still issue a subdued blood flow. The flesh is still raw and painful; prone to infection.

He cleans the wounds, applying some thick paste to the open portions, and then proceeds to wrap my arm tightly with fresh strips of medical gauze. He finishes off by wrapping firm bandages about them. Then he turns to my other arm — I have long since stopped applying pressure to the needle-inflicted wound.

Peeling the bandages from around my other wrist he gazes thoughtfully at the beaded line of dark red blood clotting at the lips of the self-inflicted wound. Then, he continues to clean, re-dress, and bind my wrist again.

Having satisfied himself, he then turns back to the surgical syringe he has abandoned on my bedside table some minutes earlier. Picking it up, he lowers himself to me again and inserts the thin, sharp point into yet another of my ill-fated veins. Being so close to me, I can smell the burning scents of the hospital emanating from him — the disinfectants, antiseptics, medications, and a lingering smell of death, ill-covered by a thin cloud of bleach. I recoil slightly at this, swallowing back the bile rising in my throat.

One would think that an object as thin, minute, and hollow as the needle would be easily broken, and horribly brittle, but no. Not needles. Never needles.

I watch as blood pulls from my vein and steadily fills the needle's empty inner cavity to a predetermined mark. The thick scarlet liquid settles quickly in place and he removes the needle again. He deposits the drawn blood into a small veil and discards the needle.

"We're almost done Mr. Minamino," he informs me when he finishes with my blood. Then, smiling more to himself than me, he adds: "Now, there's only one more test."

I raise my head in silent acknowledgement.

"If you'll please stand, then?" he dictates.

I draw myself from the bed, with more grace and ease now that the I.V. has been removed. Drawing myself from the bed, I stand, suddenly aware that my legs are being attacked by the pins and needles feeling of having lost circulation.

My next thought is a mutinous: _A good day, indeed…_

He nods and turns from me, striding to a small, wheeled cart near the door. When he turns back to me, he has a large needle in his hands, and a small veil of some mysterious clear liquid.

Somehow, the needle troubles me more than the mysterious liquid substance, however…

--

"We'll call you to confirm the results of the tests, Mrs. Minamino," Dr. Masaha informs us, as I stand beside my mother half an hour later at the receptionist's box, waiting for my _out patient_ paperwork to be returned so that we can leave this God-forsaken place.

"Thank you, Doctor," mother replies appreciatively, bending into a low bow of gratitude.

He smiles. "Not at all. Also—" he hands her a roll of gauze and bandages. "—See to it that his wounds are treated and dressed regularly to avoid secondary infection."

She takes them, nodding in understanding.

"Mrs. Minamino? Your son's paperwork has come back," a quiet voice says from behind us.

Mother turns and takes the papers the receptionist offers her, hands pale and trembling.

"Thank you, and good day."

With that, mother and I turn around and begin the trek back down the hallway, down the corresponding white-washed and maze-like floors, and to her car. Then, finally, I can return home. Ironic that I have only been gone for two days — Yuusuke's house and the hospital combined — but after the series of tumultuous events that I have gone through, it is a most welcome reprieve.

--

"Shuichi, dear, are you sure you're all right?" mother asks anxiously, peering towards me in the passenger seat from over the steering wheel.

My attention, which has been on the flying scenery, snaps back as I turn my head to look at her. Her face is taught and anxious, and her warm eyes reflect something highly reminiscent of fear. The sight of her so wrought with pain and worry is enough to make any words of assurance I have to offer her stick in my throat and threaten to choke me.

"Yes, of course, Mother. I am perfectly fine," I reply slowly, voice low. My voice threatens to betray my calm — threatens to break, and wavers just enough to assure me of this fact — but I restrain it. "Why wouldn't I be?"

_Why, indeed._

"You look so pale," she replies sternly, her eyes narrowing as though she is trying to take in some unforeseen part of me that she cannot make out at first glance.

"It is quite alright, Mother. Doctor Masaha said that I had lost a fair amount of blood, and that I would be anemic for some time afterwards because of it. It is nothing to worry yourself over."

As the words leave my lips her eyes widen, as though she cannot quite believe I have let such a remark fall from my tongue, situation considered. She directs her gaze back to the windshield hurriedly then, and I am certain that as she does so I see her eyes cloud over with moistness; things unsaid, things undone — just a shade too late now.

_Such a shame that life doesn't come with erasers…_

She takes a deep breath through her nose, reigning in control of her voice again. "Yes, you're right," she nods lamely, accepting my rebuttal of her concern. "But, how are you feeling? Especially after that last test?" Her voice is steady, but I can hear her straining to keep it so.

"Last test?" I think for a moment before I realize which one she is referring to. "It was not so bad. Although, I will admit that the needle was rather ominous looking, and my entire lower back is still numb."

"Well, it's bound to be, isn't it?" she replies almost snappishly. _Almost_. "Lidocaine." She shakes her head, and judging by her expression the word leaves a foul taste in her mouth. "You had to choose the local anesthetic; it's no wonder you can't feel your back, Shuichi, dear."

I nod; her words ring true. Instead of allowing them to render me completely unconscious, I had chosen a local anesthetic to use when the needle had been forced into my lower back. As a result, both of my legs are numb and heavy, feeling almost as if they are not presently here, attached to my body.

When she says nothing more I turn back towards the window, my eyes gazing half-lidded at the rush of green foliage that blurs by my vision as we continue on.

"Oh, Shuichi. One other thing." Mother's voice echoes through my mind, and I turn back to her reflexively.

"Yes, Mother?"

"Shuuichi and Hatanaka were still out when I heard news of what had happened to you."

I nod lightly, the slightest tucking of my chin. "Of course…"

"—When they returned, I told them there had been an accident at school, and you had been involved. They don't know about your—" She breaks off awkwardly, her eyes shimmering and clouded by unshed tears.

"Mother…" I intone gently, my voice bidding her to stop, lest she hurt herself more deeply.

"Well, I never told them that…" She shakes her head and a quivering laugh follows. "So, please be careful about the bandages. I don't want to worry Shuuichi and Hatanaka. It's worry enough for me; they needn't know as well."

Her last words echo painfully through my skull, eschewing my thoughts as they tap dance along my line of consciousness and draw out the thrumming of a dull migraine behind my eyes.

_It's worry enough for me…_

My heart beats within my chest, hammering agonizingly against my ribs. I have to take a succession of deep breaths, over a series of a couple of droning minutes, before I find myself contented with the knowledge that my heart has stopped beating so violently as to threaten cracking against my ribs in its arrhythmia.

I had not meant for it to come to this. I had not intended to hurt her. In fact, for all of my own intentions, selfish as they might have been, all of this has gone sorely wrong. Everything has been thrown so horribly askew.

"I am sorry, Mother…" I mumble quietly.

Yet, even saying so, I know it is not enough. The words taste bitter on my tongue and they fall cumbersomely from my lips, foreign as paint. They sound — to me — insincere. I do not truly mean the words as I say them — not in the context they ought be meant, at least.

_I know I will never truly mean it._

But I had to say it — if only for her. If only for her, will I continue to say it.

She does not deserve the hand that Fate has dealt to her; she does not deserve this unnecessary trouble and worry. But of course, I do nothing to stop it; I make no effort to lessen the burden for her. I am being selfish — I know this without being told in quite so many words. The sad truth, I must admit to myself, is that I am not sorry. About any of it.

"Why?" Her voice is a strangled sort of wheeze, and I shoot a curious sidelong glance to her that makes my heart jump promptly into my throat and the breath freeze in my lungs.

Silent tears are streaming down her cheeks undisturbed; they drip into her lap leaving red streams of suffering to trail from her eyes in a twin march down her suddenly age-worn face.

"Why?" she repeats, gulping in air.

_Why indeed…_

"Why would you? Aren't you happy?"

_Sometimes happiness is just an illusion…_

"Don't you feel loved and cherished?"

_I do not feel worthy…_

"Isn't it good enough for you? Aren't I good enough for you?"

_You are all any son could ask for, and all I do not deserve…_

"Shuichi — why?" Her voice constricts as she continues, the last of her resolve crumbling with her, with each additional word: "What would you do such a thing for? I th-thought you were content — I thought…" She breaks off again, the tears overcoming her.

"Mother," I sigh quietly, gathering my composure with a sort of calm dread. All the while, sharp daggers are shredding through my heart, gouging my soul and ripping painfully at my conscience. I ignore the damned thing. "It is nothing you did… I do not know _why_ I did it. I am truly sorry…"

_Yet, somehow, I know that no matter how often I say those three words, I will never truly be sorry._

She does not answer; just wipes her eyes on a handkerchief she pulls clumsily from her pocket, and continues on silently.

Taking the cue, I too, say no more.

And so, in silence we carry on.

_And so, in silence, I suffer._

My heart drums painfully in my chest, much to my displeasure, while my soul falls to pieces: its tainted, demonic, fragmented bits gouging into my core. My conscience screams at me, a litany of ill-tempered ranting that pleads that I should apologize for everything I have done and not done; for all I have said and left unsaid; for all she knows and all that she does not. My head rages that I should be sorry.

_But my heart will not let the words get past my lips again._

Saying the words will not make them true; nor will it undo what I have done. It will do even less to alleviate the pain I have caused the woman beside me. How can I be sorry? How can I say the words from the bottom of my — still beating — heart, and mean them with ever fiber of my — shallow, tainted — being?

How can I even contemplate saying any of it when I had loosed those wretched demons — shorn at my own veins, let my own blood — willingly? I knew the consequences before I began to experiment; I knew the risk. _I had known. _And now? Now, I simply cannot bring myself to be sorry for something I did of my own accord.

_Fate is indeed fickle, and unrelentingly cruel. And Karma is deplorable. Yet, in the end it is still all my fault…_

--

I am greeted by the familiar ivory radiance of the living room walls as I follow mother silently into the house. Throughout the return trip she has refrained from saying a word to me since her breakdown; I cannot blame her for it.

Slipping my shoes off and resting them against the wall boarder along the carpet line, I make my way slowly towards the stairs, in the hopes of reaching the second floor landing and _my room_ undetected.

No such luck.

"Shuichi?" My stepbrother's voice calls from the dining room in innocent tones of a voice caught in the throngs of adolescence, and I see him emerge. His blue eyes are wide in worry, and his voice is concerned. "I heard you were at the hospital! What happened?"

Mother, I see, is still in the entrance hall, straightening out our coat rack. At my stepbrother's inquiry she has visibly tensed, no doubt waiting for my response.

"Nothing to worry about, Shuuichi," I assure him, being careful to leave my arms hanging at my sides. Moving them too much may make my sleeves pull back, and will risk revealing the pearly white bandages that have been wrapped around my wrists and forearm.

He gives me a skeptical look, the line of his brow quirking into his hairline as he regards me.

"There was a fire during our Chemistry lab and I had to be treated for smoke inhalation and kept overnight for observation, that is all." I shrug mechanically, but the gesture is unnaturally stiff and does nothing to assume the false nonchalance I bid him to accept.

"Oh-kay…" he breathes out after a painfully pregnant pause.

A thin smile twitches at the corner of my lip in relief as he answers. I am mildly surprised by how easily this particular lie has flowed out of me, but it is of little consequence — it has served its purpose; Shuuichi asks no more idle questions, mother relaxes against the hall door, and the truth has been avoided.

After another moment, Shuuichi nods in understanding and sprints off again to find Hatanaka. Surely, he intends to tell my stepfather the lie I have just told him. I sigh in silent thanks for a temporary distraction from any more idle questions. Then, I look toward mother again, hoping that she may at least cast me a small smile my way in thanks for keeping any further questions at bay, but she refuses to meet my gaze and hurries off toward the kitchen.

And with that, another piece of my soul splinters.

So I head up to my room silently, avoiding the rest of the family. Entering my room again I am slightly shocked to find it still intact with everything just as I had left it. I had assumed that ever since mother had seen me with the roses in the garden she would have dismantled my room. Apparently, I am wrong in that assumption. Whether I am grateful for the fact I cannot quite say yet.

I close the door behind me, listening as the door's catch clicks and locks in place with the frame. There is something calming — downright comforting — about being behind a securely closed door. I never quite understood the feeling, but now and presently, I am quite thankful for it.

In here I am secure; safe from prying eyes and idle questions. Safe, however temporarily, from the catalyst of lies that stand between me and a _normal _existence — and safe from the truth I so adamantly hide from. Safe from everything and secure in knowing I am alone. Left in solitude.

And in taking advantage of my solitude, I promptly slip into some more comfortable clothes. The ones I am wearing now are the same ones I had worn during my stay in the hospital, and they are far from being comfortable — far from being entirely sanitary at this point, as they reek of hospital, disinfectants, bleach, and death. The clothes I had worn on the evening of my collapse had been washed and then thrown out given the fact that blood does not come easily from white fabric, and even after washing it, it still harbored the unmistakable rustic red-brown tinge of aged blood.

Feeling better in new clothes, I gaze around my room once more. Everything seems in place. Everything is just as I had left it.

_Except, of course, my life, which I doubt will ever quite be the same again._

My legs are still numb and feel as though they are made of ice blocks. I must admit, standing feels unnatural. Without feeling in my legs I feel oddly disconnected from my body, almost as though I am floating; floating like the spectral being my whole _family_ must surely regard me as, now.

An interesting, if not slightly unnerving feeling in itself.

_Best not to contemplate the thought of it, however…_

After a few minutes of aimless staring at everything and nothing in particular, I make my way to the edge of my bed and sit down, still not really feeling myself move. Shadows are dancing across my walls slowly as the sun shifts positions behind the clouds and the cherry tree standing near my window, and in the dim light they wink happily at me. I watch them for lack of anything better to do and gradually, the dim lighting in my room shifts to ever darker, until I realize that the crescent moon has risen, and the stars have come out to greet me…

_The only things to truly come greet me since my return, now some hours ago._

--

Tingling in my legs wakes me discontentedly. As I move my foot around gingerly in an attempt to regain its circulation, I sit up. Unbeknownst to me, I must have fallen asleep in a sitting position during the previous night, because in waking, I find myself leaning placidly with my back to the wall — a not entirely compliant pillow through the restless night.

Standing up, I am slightly put off to note that my legs and lower back still feel mildly separated from the rest of my body. They still feel extraordinarily heavy, as though I am carrying heavy shackles around both of my ankles, as I make to exit the room.

Sitting down at the kitchen table I pick slowly at the toast I obligingly make for myself. But, ever since my hospital trip, my appetite has waned to virtually none.

Shrill ringing erupts from the wall behind me and I turn my head toward the sound, listening as the phone rings again. Mother rushes past me and picks up the receiver, so I turn to staring half-heartedly at my uneaten piece of toast.

"Oh, Doctor Masaha! You've got the test results already?" Her voice is mingled with exhaustion, shock and anxiousness.

I lift my head slightly, training my ears on the conversation intently. Perhaps listening to another's conversation is wrong, and eavesdropping is definitely frowned upon in society as a whole, but the conversation _is_ centered around me — or my well being, at least — so surely I am entitled to some sort of listening rights on those basis.

"I see. So, what have you concluded from the tests?"

Her voice falters when she speaks again. "Really? You're sure?"

Silence.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

Silence.

"Very well. I'll be down shortly. I'll bring him along."

Silence again.

"Yes… Thank you… Doctor… Goodbye."

I hear the line click dead on the other side.

She places the phone back on the receiver slowly, deliberately, and turns to me. The movement is stiff, her whole body rigid and hardly moving. Her expression is difficult for me to read.

"I presume the doctor has gotten the test results?" I ask, hoping to start her part in the conversation.

"Yes…" she begins slowly. "He wants us to come down to the hospital. There's something he wants to discuss with us."

"Indeed." I nod slowly, hazarding a quick glance in her direction. "Well, did he tell you what they found out?" I ask mildly, voice neutral.

"Somewhat…" she replies slowly, her voice as easily measured as my own.

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. "Is it something serious?"

_Somehow, I know that this encounter will change it all. After this, I will never be able to go back._

_What is it they say about burning bridges, after all?_

"Oh no, dear." A note of forced unconcern ekes into her voice. "Don't be foolish. I'm sure it's nothing," she replies lightly, a tight smile working along the line of her lips.

_Oh no, I won't be foolish, Mother. That much I can guarantee you._

_But I am not to be fooled, either._


	13. 4: Paper Cranes

**Price of Forgiveness**

--

_Part IV: Paper Cranes_

_Flawed in its beauty and perfection,_

_The glass rose is dangerous._

_Loosing itself to time,_

_It breaks, shattering further._

_Not only hurting itself,_

_But threatening those around it._

_It loses itself to destruction,_

_A self-inflicted punishment._

She wrings her hands nervously in her lap, her countenance rigid and her face taut with nervousness. Sitting beside her in the stiff-backed hospital chair I smile in reassurance to her, though my gesture does little to ease her mood.

Her eyes are closed against the blinding white radiating from the walls of the waiting room we occupy and her eyebrows furrow in stark concentration. Her attitude is one I find curious. After all, we are waiting here simply to hear my own diagnosis, not hers. And yet, she is the one suffering all of the anxiety that comes with pre-prognosis while I sit calmly, though somewhat impatiently, waiting for the Doctor to enter.

The mechanical creaking of stale, weathered hinges draws my attention, and I direct my gaze towards the door. Mother's gaze falls upon the door as well as two figures enter the room. One of them is the tall, slightly pompous man I've come to recognize as Dr. Masaha, and the other is the same woman who had been in the hospital room with me the morning prior. Her blazing eyes are ones I am not likely to forget in a hurry.

The expressions they bare do little to let me assume that what we will be hearing in short order is good news, Mother seems to feel the same, as I can see her hands trembling as her they clench reflexively over the material of her skirt, groping for a stronghold over the emotions she can barely keep from spilling over. Her eyes linger steadily on the two figures as they pull up chairs opposite us and sit down, but her eyes glimmer unnaturally in the light, and her gaze is clouded over with pain and uncertainty.

"Mrs. Minamino," Dr. Masaha begins slowly, "I don't know if you are aware, perhaps you haven't been told—" he glances briefly from his female counterpart to me, "—but upon examining a sample of your son's blood, we've discovered some abnormalities."

At first, it seems as though she makes an effort to speak at receiving the news. But all she manages is a sort of pained moan, so she resigns herself with a curt nod.

"Now, at first, we thought there may have been some confusion, considering the first blood sample was taken and already aged considerably outside of the body," the Doctor explains calmly, looking from mother to myself and back again.

Mother still cannot find her voice and presently, her eyes have fallen back to her lap where she stares resolutely at the hems of her skirt. I merely nod at the man, wishing he would stop prolonging this ordeal for the person beside me.

"So, we took fresh samples upon his arrival," he elaborates. "When the results did not waver, we decided to take one last look. Which is why we drew another sample of blood, as well as of bone marrow."

Then it is his turn to fall silent, and I am forced to wonder if they had called us in just to tell us this information. Then, however, when his female counterpart takes up in his stead, I know we are not quite finished. Not just yet, at least.

"Mrs. Minamino, I am the lab technician that examined your son's blood samples," the woman informs us. It is a far from useful introduction, I think. "When his counts came in we tried everything to sway the results from the inevitable diagnosis they pointed out, but there are some things you just can't deny."

Mother nods again, then sighs deeply, lifts her head to look at the woman, and manages to voice, "Of course, yes. But then, what's wrong with my son?"

Obviously, despite all of her outward pain, she too, seems to be getting rather impatient and tired of all of this around-the-bush sort of talking.

The woman's eyes meet my mother's in a brief moment of understanding, and for once I detect a hint of sympathy in her cold eyes. Mother holds her gaze steadily, though the effort is draining her considerably.

"His counts are abnormal, Mrs. Minamino. The white blood cell count in his blood is almost twice that of an average human. I'm sure you understand the meaning of this; we informed you that it might make itself known again after your first child was stillborn. You knew the chances of course."

"Yes, but…" Her voice shakes, the slightest wavering. "But… he survived, the cases were all chronic — how?"

The woman nods slowly, taking in mother's words, and turns to the small clipboard she has brought with her. Pages rustle thickly for a moment, the sound heavy around us, so accustomed to stillness, before she stops to consult a piece of paper. After a moment of silence she looks back towards us and goes on, tentatively:

"I know this may come as a shock to you. Undoubtedly you know your family's history with the disease."

At this mother nods and it is an almost feverish action. "Well, yes. Yes, of course," she supplies mindlessly, the words spilling haphazardly from her lips.

The woman simply continues on, ignoring mother's loose tongue. "You understood that those factors are what claimed your first child, and that is why we told you it would undoubtedly claim your other children. Your son, here, is a miracle at best, you knew this."

"Yes," she repeats in monotone. "But why is it happening now?" Her voice falters into a barely audible whisper as she voices the question — one to which I know she would probably rather not receive an honest answer.

"It's not unheard of," the woman begins thoughtfully. "The cases concerning the disease in correlation to your family's history are all chronic. As in the factors of the disease where always there — your son's case is no exception."

"So, then, it's come back?" Mother asks feebly, her voice suddenly tired and steeped in agony.

"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Minamino," the woman confirms solemnly. "Dr. Masaha will now explain to your son what's wrong. Bless him, for he may already know."

I nod slowly, choosing to ignore the attitude with which she regards me — as though I am some complete idiot. From her account, I believe I have a clear idea of what is wrong and I do not believe it would have taken a neurosurgeon to figure it out, let alone a centuries old demon.

But regardless of the inevitable answer I just think I have discovered, I know I will still have to sit through the Doctor's kind rehashing of the entire thing.

_So, I may as well tuck in respectfully and get comfortable._

With his companion's go ahead, Dr. Masaha clears his throat, turns to me, and begins: "Mr. Minamino, I shall not beat around the bush, I shall come out and say it."

I nod tiredly, thankful that he is going to cut his explanation short.

"Your elevated level of white blood cells indicates that you have CLL. Chronic Lymphatic Leukemia. Of course, this type of cancer is very curable in young people such as yourself. Over seventy percent curable, actually."

At this last bit of news, his voice raises into something presumably resembling false cheer. I suspect he is expecting me to be relieved by this bit of information.

_Really? Seventy percent curable? Well that only leaves… what? A thirty percent chance at death?_

"So, our plan of action is thus: I know that you haven't had much time to recuperate from your last stay in the hospital and I'd like to give your arms some time to heal from their wounds, not to mention give your veins some time to strengthen themselves again. And so, I suggest you go home and rest tonight, and tomorrow you shall come in. If we start you on chemo promptly, we can launch you straight into automatic remission and tackle this at its' roots before it has a chance to progress."

"I see," I murmur thoughtfully. "Is that all then?"

At my calm, both physicians reel back slightly. Startled by my unquestioning understanding and acceptance, I suppose.

"Y-yes," stammers the woman slowly, before regaining her brisk manner and continuing on. "Now, if you'd like, we can dispatch a team of doctors to your school to inform the faculty and pupils of your condition, and tell them what they can do to help."

Mother lifts her head slowly, revealing a fresh stream of tears. "That would be most appreciated and help—"

"No. That will not be necessary," I cut across mother.

"Shuichi!" mother replies sharply, her gaze flying to me. Her eyes damp and her voice shakes, as though taken aback by my defiance.

"No, Mother," I repeat mildly. Then, remembering my place among these people, I drop my gaze to the floor respectfully. "It is not necessary."

"But, dear," she interjects. "Don't you think they school should know?" her voice is so soft I wonder whether the Doctor and the woman even heard her.

"They need not know. This is my ordeal to face. They have no say in this, they need not know." Although it hurts me to outright deny mother this, so blatantly in fact, I hold my ground.

After a pregnant moment and some withering glances from the two people seated next to us, she sighs, obviously resigned. "Yes, you heard him. It is his choice. You needn't concern yourselves over informing the school."

Clearly she is too tired to continue arguing. This minor victory of mine does little to ease the guilt that swells in my chest as I look at her again, however. It is rude of me to argue with her about this matter — I will not even attempt to deny that — and even more so considering the time and given the circumstance. However, just as I told Hiei, this is my life and I will live it as I see fit.

_I am truly a selfish son. She doesn't deserve this, and I don't deserve her…_

"We're truly sorry, Mrs. Minamino," they utter solemnly in unison as they stand and turn to exit the room. Dr. Masaha clasps her shoulder briefly before he follows in the wake of his companion and leaves.

_Yes, you are both as sorry as I am about my escapades with the blade and the ancient art of blood letting, in other words, not very…_

--

I sit beside her silently, not really knowing what I can say to ease her spirits. Part of me longs to say that I am sorry, no matter how insincere the words may be; they are all I can fathom that may relieve her of some of her pain.

"Mother," I sigh deftly, "I am—"

"Shuichi, it's not your fault."

I fall silent, allowing my voice to taper off mid-sentence. Her sentiment has shocked me and I will not be so arrogant as to deny it. How can it _not_ be my fault?

"Pardon?"

She glances at me from over the steering wheel and gives me a small, sad smile. "I know you think this is somehow your fault."

If only she could know how right she is. I will be the first to admit; when I toyed with the blade I knew what I was getting in to. But I never expected it to escalate into this at all. It has all gone so far from what I had intended.

"It isn't," she assures me, seeing the disbelieving look I cast her.

"I suppose I should explain." Her voice drops an octave as she continues on, "our family — specifically, my family side of the family — has a history of Leukemia. In fact, I myself was diagnosed with Chronic Lymphatic Leukemia when I was younger."

At this I snap around, staring at her unabashedly. _What?_

She nods, confirming herself. "I fought the disease myself, but it was always there, never really went away. When I gave birth to Misako—" she lets out a quiet sob, "who would have been your elder sister, I was still fighting the disease."

"Mother," I exhale quietly, still not fully believing her, "but why have—"

She shakes her head listlessly, a tired laugh rolling from her lips and it is enough to silence me. "You know that a mother's health often times reflects the child's health, yes?"

Again, it is a question. But I know she is not looking for an answer. Frankly, even if she is expecting an answer I do not know how I intend to give one. My voice has fled me and I am not so sure calling it back would be in my own — or her — best interests.

"Well, since I was weak from radiation and the chemo your sister was stillborn."

Never before have I heard mother speak so openly about her firstborn. I remember having asked several times about the child in my younger years but learned to quickly keep my mouth shut when each question garnered nothing more than tears. Right now the woman, my mother, is truly baring me a piece of her soul.

And honestly, I am not entirely comfortable with it.

"That's why they told me the chances of me having a healthy child were virtually none. I was still fighting the disease when I had you. I never told you because — well, after your father died, you saw how rough it was on us. I didn't want to alarm you any more."

At this confession a brief surge of anger flares through me. Of course, I understand why she had kept it from me, but it does not excuse the fact that she had. Especially not for so long. But, seeing her now as she divulges this to me, I am acutely aware of just how taxing this is for her and wish she would have kept it from me still, if only to spare herself the pain of having to reopen such old wounds.

"But then, on your 15th birthday, I was hospitalized."

And finally, there is a piece of the story that makes a little sense. I remember that night and the day — my birthday — with perfect clarity.

And suddenly, the pieces of mother's story are starting to fall into place.

"I had been in remission for almost three years and it came back full blown," she nods, a tight smile — more a grimace, actually — at her lips as she tells me this. "The doctors hoped that a bone marrow transfusion would help me, so I received one. But my body didn't accept the new marrow. Since my immune system was weak after the transfusion, when I got a nasty infection it would've been the end of me."

_Yes, it is all starting to make sense now_, I think mutinously at this latest adage of hers. At the news I feel the twinge of a migraine start to form behind my eyes and I bring my hands to my face. Hair spills through my fingers and sways with me as I shake my head in disbelief. I cannot believe this.

Oblivious to my discomfort, or else ignoring it in sway of continuing to get if off her chest, she finishes: "You remember the doctor telling you that my time was near, yes? Well, somehow I pulled through. And since then I've been in remission again, with no signs of the disease. But, I should've known that somehow you'd get it…"

She falls silent and the only sound I am aware of is the sudden humming sound enveloping my senses. I cannot believe this. How could she keep this from me so long? Yes, now it all makes sense. Every last miserable word paints a picture of the last few years in my mind, and it is perfectly clear. But how could she not have told me?

I nod, words failing me. I do not know what else to do in light of this news.

The car jolts to a stop. "Shuichi, I don't want you in school today. Just go in the house and rest. I will call the school and tell them you're not feeling well. Don't worry about Shuuichi and your Hatanaka. Shuuichi is at school and Hatanaka is at work. You'll be alone all day because I have to get to work. So rest. I'll see you this afternoon." She leans over in her seat and takes my face in her hands, bringing her lips softly to my forehead, then slowly pulls back.

I got out of the car slowly, watching as she pulls away from the curb and disappears behind the corner. I retire to the house, suddenly numb.

_Well, this is worse than my diagnosis._

--

_Ding-dong._

The timely echoing drone of the doorbell sounding off pulls me from my misguided thoughts and forces me back into reality.

_Ding-dong._

It sounds again and I tread slowly through my room and off the second floor landing. My mind reels in thought, who could this be? Mother hasn't told anyone — no one knows. Perhaps it's just a neighbor…

Standing before the house door my attention is momentarily drawn to the dancing light show that is painting itself across the carpet as the sun's rays cast light through the painted glass window decorating the upper portion of the doorframe.

_Ding-dong._

My head snaps up and I remember what has bidden me to come down in the first place. Averting my gaze from the lights splaying over the floor, I open the door.

My gaze falls upon the figure of a young woman wearing blue jeans and a white sweater and for a moment my thoughts escape me and I cannot, for the life of me, think of who this is. She is of medium build, nearly as tall as I, and is standing demurely before me, no doubt waiting for me to acknowledge her somehow. I look at her for another quick moment before my brain spins back into overdrive and a quiet voice in the back of my mind starts parroting:

_Kurama, I don't care who you are — what you are. But I will always love you for whomever you chose to be, or become. You're not immortal. I guess we'd to well to remember that, huh? I won't give up on you, even if you've given up on yourself. I never will…_

I am looking at the figure of none other than Botan.

I look at her oddly for a moment before giving her a small smile. She merely sidesteps me and walks into the house, clearly abandoning all respect in doing so. Confused, I close the door slowly and turn to join her on our couch, where she has taken up residence.

"What brings you here, Botan?" I ask slowly, sitting beside her, but mindful enough to keep the distance between us respectable.

At first, she cannot meet my gaze, but gradually she lifts her head and looks at me. Her violet eyes, usually so full of life and vigor, appear suddenly dead and devoid of happiness. Something serious must have happened to cause such a tremendous change in her.

"I've just come from Reikai with the others," she mutters, her voice flat and hollow. "Lord Koenma said he needed to talk to us. So I fetched Yuusuke, Kuwabara, and Hiei. Lord Koenma told me not to summon you," she sighs. "Because he had to talk to us about you."

"Did he?" I ask, mildly surprised. "And what did he tell you?"

"He told them about what you've been doing to yourself, and why you were in the hospital."

"They all know why I was in the hospital. Yuusuke found me and took me there. It is nothing they don't already know, Botan." I tell her coolly, suddenly getting irritated.

"No," she shakes her head. "You don't understand, Kurama. He told them that you're sick."

"He knows then, does he?" I sigh tiredly. It's not at all surprising that he knows, really. Still, I would just as happily pretend that he did not.

"Of course he knows. He's the Crown Prince of Reikai, did you expect him not to know?" she asks, sounding incredulous.

"Certainly I expected him to know, Botan—" I snap in irritation. "But seeing as how this somewhat personal, I would still like to pretend that he did not," I finish, parroting my prior thoughts.

After this, she falls silent and bites her lip. I see the light shimmer in her eyes and pick up on the tremble in her lip — I have made her want to cry. Brilliant.

I sigh, and decide to try a different angle since anger seems to be getting us nowhere. "But, what brings you here, then? Surely you did not come just to inform me of this?"

Her gaze drops to the floor at my words, and I see the faint traces of a blush lining her cheeks softly, which is, altogether, worse to see than her threatening tears.

"No. I-I came because…" her voice trails off and she looks up at me again, her eyes shining suddenly bright. When she speaks, however, her voice is quiet, a meek sound. "You're hurting aren't you?"

"Pardon?" I ask, slightly taken aback by the question.

"Hiei told us that you were tapping your ki dry to stave off Youko. I understand your reasons I guess," she shrugs at this and it is a painful throwback to the incident at Genkai's for me.

"Botan, please—" I cut in, about to ask her not to travel down that particular road quite yet. As things stand, I would rather not have to rehash that night.

"But… that means you can't heal yourself as effectively, can you? And your arms — they must hurt," she finishes, raising her voice the slightest bit, speaking resolutely over me.

"I suppose they are a little sore from the last few days," I concede slowly, relieved that she had not brought up the day at the compound. "And you are right; I haven't been able to manifest my powers well since I've been holding back Youko. But why do you ask?"

She brings her hands slowly to my left arm, her fingers tracing silent pathways down the fabric of the sleeve and resting steadily on my hand. I can feel her trembling, but her voice is firm. "I can heal some of your hurt, you know."

At this inclination, I stare blankly for a moment. I had expected her to come in anger, or at least some emotion mirroring dismay, disgust. Something utterly different than what she sits offering me now; unquestioned understanding and unconditional compassion.

Still, despite what she so clearly is offering, with open arms no less, I find myself shaking my head in a polite rebuttal. "No, you need not worry yourself with me, Botan," I assure her gently.

"You're right Kurama," she nods with a watery smile, "I don't _need_ to, but I _want _to."

"Botan…"

"Kurama, please?" she hedges, scooting to the cushion beside me making the distanced I had put between us prior a non-issue. I feel her fingers tighten around my hand as she whispers a teary, "Please?"

I stay silent because I have already said no and she does not want to hear that, and I do not want to make her cry, so more words are futile. There is nothing to say, so I merely look away, hoping she will take note of it and leave me be. Instead, she takes this as her incentive to push up my sleeve. The bandages are slightly dog-eared, the edges of the bindings frayed and coming loose; the fabric is stained a dull rust color. I hear her inhale sharply, almost here the "oh" I know must be resting on her tongue.

Then slowly, I feel the gauze strip being pulled away and her hands coming to a rest slowly upon the wounds. Surprisingly, her touch brings no pain with it, only a white-hot slow burn the pulses through my veins steadily. Still, I cannot bring myself to look at her; despite my compliance, this is the last thing I want — the only thing I probably need; her unconditionally-loving soul — and I remain completely slack under her healing caress.

"It's just basic pneumatic-therapy," she explains as if I do not already know this, filling the silence with empty conversation, and only succeeding in making the continuing stillness that much more awkward. "Nothing really fancy, but it should heal some of this up nicely."

I nod and turn to her; not until I feel her pull away and can once more take relish in the sleeves of my shirt covering the bandages, however. "Thank you, Botan," I mouth, and far from sounding sincere it is an entirely mechanical thanks.

She smiles, ignoring my pointed displeasure, and reaches into the pocket of her jeans. With some difficulty, given her seated position, she pulls a small folded object out of her pocket and offers it to me in her open palms. "There's just this one other thing, Kurama."

"Is there?" I ask, dread welling in my stomach as I obligingly turn to face her fully.

"Here." She thrusts the object into my hands. "Take this; it's the one thousandth one I've folded."

I study the object closely; incredulously realize what it is. The small, ivory mass has been molded into a pristine, perfectly folded origami crane. Its pointed, beaked face seems to regard me, the paper radiating and I close my eyes, disbelief the only thing my mind has room for

I feel a frown tug on my lips and am not shy in hiding this from Botan as I open my eyes again and face her. When I find my voice, string a thought together, the words come out somewhat harsher than I intend for them to: "Really now, Botan. We don't need _another_ Sadako, do we?"

"What do you mean?" she replies indignantly, her eyes blazing with a wounded look; she sincerely thinks I am to be happy to be presented with such an insufferable thing as a _paper crane_.

"Think if you will what the paper crane symbolizes," I snap, closing my fist angrily, feeling the paper — even folded as it is — give easily beneath my fingers, crushing the damnable thing.

_And slowly, slowly, __I feel long-laid chains stirring in my soul; feel familiar Makai breezes on my skin, smell the air, gorged with rain, taste metal. And I know that Youko has something to say about this._

"Peace, and hope," she breathes slowly, a hitch in her voice giving way to a fresh onslaught of tears, idle raindrops from cloudy skies. "Which is something you sorely need."

"We do not need another Sadako," I grumble, this time not caring that the words are harsh or that they are hurting her. What she did was out of place and she should be aware of it. "You should not have folded them."

"I'm not trying to turn you into another poster child!" she argues, glaring daggers at me from tearful eyes. "I just what you to know that — that…" her voice breaks off suddenly, her expression hard to read.

"That what, Botan," I snap, growing tired of her antics. "What?" I feel my pulse quicken, my muscles tighten. "What is it!?" I demand, glaring openly, my tone dripping venom. I am angry and I have every right to be.

"It's nothing," she replies quietly, drawing away from me, no doubt frightened by my sudden onset of rage. "Just forget I said anything, alright?"

"I doubt it's nothing," I reply, the words no more than a primal snarl as they fall from my lips. "Tell me," I demand.

"Look," she sighs, eyes resting for a brief moment on my clenched fist and the poor bird held within it. "I told you that was the thousandth one. You know the legend, don't you?"

"Of course: complete them and the deepest wish of your heart will come true," I tell her bluntly, affronted that she could take me for such a moron as not to know this. "It's an urban legend, nothing more."

She shakes her head, a quiet laugh slipping off of her lips. "You've become overly fatalistic, Kurama. What's happened to you?"

"Can you truly be so naïve," I toss back at her, my tone slowly finding its way back to my usual tenor; my eyes remain cold, however.

"I've been folding them since Genkai-sama died. And now, they're done. I hoped my wish would come true, but seeing you it's proof enough that it hasn't," she explains sadly, shaking her head at me; a pitiable gesture.

"Wishing on a folded piece of paper is not a promise, Botan. Of course your wish hasn't come true. It is urban legend and folklore. There's no proof that points otherwise," I tell her dryly.

"You just don't get it do you?" she asks slowly. "The cranes are a sigh of hope. The hope that I had, the hope that you lost." Her voice tapers off into silence and tears leak slowly from her eyes.

"You aren't making sense," I reply gruffly, feeling mildly guilty for having brought her to tears. Despite my anger at her and my disapproval of her antic with the crane, I cannot stand to see her cry; cannot bear the knowledge that I am the one responsible for it.

"Botan, please," I sigh in tired resignation, knowing that I have to let the anger go. It is not the path I should be walking now. "I do not know what you mean."

"Forget it — just forget it," she hiccups between her tears. And now it is her turn to sound angry. "I wanted you to know; to see the truth. But I know it obviously won't happen. All I can hope for now is that with this final crane you see the truth."

She stands then, an abrupt and rigid motion, and walks to the door, holding it open. "Maybe you'll realize it — just maybe." But even as she says the words there is a doubtful tone to the words. You've given up on yourself and on everyone else. But we haven't — _I haven't_." She steps out the door, "I wish you would realize that you're not alone, and I wish you knew that it's not hopeless."

And with that, the door slams shut with a menacing _clack_.

A moment of silence follows in which the sound of breaking glass catches my attention. I turn towards the noise and see tinted pieces of glass lying shattered on our carpet. Slamming the door had dislodged the delicate stained glass windows from the frame, and had sent it crashing down.

The pieces lay in fragments, a litany of color upon the otherwise blank canvas of our simple carpet. A once whole and beautiful thing now lies in thousands of splinters, its past beauty as lost now as the image it portrayed is.

The paper crane has fluttered to the floor — released from my crushing grip upon the arrival of Botan's departure — and my gaze flies back to it. Pale reflections of shattered glass cast opaque shapes and colors upon its blank sides and shadows dance off of the crumpled paper.

The scene is highly reminiscent of my life; a metaphor for it, really.

Hope and Peace; the crane symbolizes what had been and the shattered glass is the picture of now. The glass is broken; it can never again be what it had been. It will always be broken and no amount of repair will ever restore it to its prior glory. It may be put back together, but the cracks will always remain.

I pick up the crane and set it back on the couch, and then turn to the broken glass on the floor. I smile inwardly. The difference between my life and the eloquent little metaphor that accompanies it is simple. The glass is broken and cannot be fixed; it has no more hope

I kneel on the carpet, my back to the crane, which stands as a lone sentinel from my couch, the sole bystander to this spectacle, and start picking up the glass fragments.

_And with them, I pick up the fragments of my broken life._

Once the larger shards are removed from the carpet I turn to the trash and throw them out; I will vacuum later to remove the smaller fragments and then I will throw out the trash.

_And with it, I will throw out the fragments of my broken life…_


	14. 5: Understanding

_**Parting of Ways**_

_--_

_Part I: Understanding_

_Among the vain and the fickle_

_Stand the few, who know the truth,_

_That a glass rose is not perfect_

_What's more, they don't look to the lies,_

_But instead accept the truth as it is_

_And accept the fact openly…_

_With unquestioned understanding_

Frigid, late-winter breezes wash over my face, scarlet tendrils of my hair billowing out before my eyes on the updrafts. Half-lidded, I gaze with tired fascination at the passing scenery. Glittering crystals of pure snow cling idly to bare tree limbs and ornate the frozen grass in a white, ethereal powder. Glowing brilliantly in the vast cerulean sky, the sun radiates a blinding, pulsating light, though it has not one ray of warmth to cast upon my numb body.

"Shuichi, are you alright, dear?" Mother's voice permeates my lulled thoughts, pulling me from my disillusioned state of mind.

"Yes, Mother," I reply slowly, my voice tired and strained. I sigh, "just tired, I suppose."

"Of course you are," she replies matter-of-factly.

When she says nothing more I return to staring, without real purpose or intent, out the window.

While the miraculous display of winter is a sight to behold, the brightness radiated by the snow, scattered scarcely, yet abundantly over the earth, causes much irritation for my tired eyes, and gives me a headache. I close my eyes, and yet, through heavy eyelids, white still envelops my senses.

My temples throb painfully, and with each wave of pain enveloping my senses, another palpation matches its rhythm. My head is pounding; my heart is pounding.

Struggling to lift my eyelids, I cast a glance to one of my exposed wrists. In the pale winter light my skin looks white as snow, almost translucent and much less startling. Although months have passed since the _incident_, fine lines of beaded crimson knots still ornate my flesh.

_I suppose my human body requires larger lengths of time to heal now that Youko cannot interfere._

I lift my other arm, numb fingers ghosting a silent path towards the delicate flesh. With discrete gentleness I press upon the marred tissue. Brief pain surges through my body — a sharp, shooting pain that subsides with the calm beating of my pulse.

I feel my heart beating beneath my flesh; calmly, placidly. I frown slightly and pull my hand away. I have no business having a pulse; every assuring throb of my heart only tells me otherwise.

Painful scratching sensations seize my throat, and though I am only partially aware of it, I find myself overcome by a torrent of wracking coughs. I pull my hands towards my mouth — an automatic thing that has become an almost reflexive response by now — cringing in pain as I do so, and cover my mouth, coughing uncontrollably. Each torrential spasm grasps me anew, my throat feeling as though someone is ripping through the delicate tissue with a knife. As soon as the thought of the knife comes to mind, if on command, I am greeted by the as-of-late so familiar metallic tang of blood in the back of my throat.

A few moments later I manage to stop the coughing spasms and fall still once more, though I find myself shaking slightly for some unforeseen reason.

"Shu— Shuichi. You're bleeding," mother's voice whispers hoarsely, a hint of unbidden fear eking out in her tone.

I nod, already being aware of the slow trickle of a liquid — presumably the said blood — that is slipping from the corner of my lips.

I lift a hand and brush nimbly at the trickle of liquid issuing from my mouth. Indeed, I am right in my assumptions. Gazing towards my raised hand I see the droplets of blood, the remnants of the rivulet tracing from my lips, lingering on my fingers. Plucking a Kleenex from the center console area, situated between the two front seats, I dab away at the crimson droplet.

I suppose one would expect that I should be unnerved by the discovery that I am bleeding internally on a relative basis but, actually, it is a relatively common occurrence by now. It has been this way for the last three months, I recall bitterly.

Ever since my ill-fated diagnosis, it has been this way. The hospital staff assured me that what they were doing as part of my medical regimen was completely conventional. Their methods have, of course, always been unorthodox, but this was quite the new development. The stage of my treatment called 'automatic remission' was, in a way, another hell reborn for me.

For the first few weeks there were regular hospital visits, four days a week in which I would receive daily Chemo, and three to allow my body to recover some lost blood cells and replenish my counts. Then the process would start anew. Then, there was radiation treatment, by far the most farfetched treatment I have heard of. Radiation is just as likely to give you cancer so why on God's green earth would they risk using it to cure the self-same illness? That is ningen reasoning for you.

After some time on radiation therapy and after receiving innumerable transfusions, the doctors approached mother and I with some startling news. My counts were doubling, and my condition was feasibly worsening. So, basically, all their methods had failed.

And so, this brings us to now. I find myself back on Chemotherapy, and am receiving white blood cell transfusions on a regular basis. They hope that I will not relapse for the worse again, because once a patient with my condition relapses, chances of permanent remission or of overall being cured, is lessened considerably.

It is ironic that in trying to 'save' me, they have inevitably made my condition worse. I suppose it is not their fault entirely, however. My Youko soul, his essence, still resides within me, and that is undoubtedly one of the unforeseen factors that is contributing to the fact that my condition is only worsening.

Yet, in spite of everything, I am worse off than I was before all of the humans' meddling — no matter how well-intentioned . Weak, tired, prone to infection; the poison they pump regularly into my veins is ruining me. And sometimes — sometimes — it is all I can do just to keep myself from taking up the nearest sharp object I can find and slashing with frantic, manic strokes at every inch of my exposed flesh that I can come in contact with to rip open the vessels and allow myself to bleed; bleed to rid my body of the disgusting poisons they fill my veins with.

Really, just to bleed again for the sheer, excruciating joy of feeling such a familiar relief. Sometimes, all that stops me from returning to my prior ways is knowing that the woman, Shiori, would come out of it worse than I would in the long run. But, can anyone truly blame me for wanting to tear into myself again? The hellish substance they fill me with does nothing to help my situation. If anything, it has made it worse.

The car pulls to a stop in the driveway and I unbuckle myself and open the door, pulling slowly from the vehicle on weak knees. Mother is ahead of me and I make to follow her into the house. But my body does not seem to want to respond. I stand numb, rooted to the spot, my eyes lingering painfully on the remnants of my garden. Mother is already standing on the foyer, before the door, waiting for me. Still, I do not draw nearer to her; I step towards my garden plot.

"Shuichi, come along, dear," she calls, waving me over towards the house. "Come inside. You'll only catch your death out here in this weather, with not even a coat on—"

"Leave me be. You've no reason to treat me as such a fragile thing when I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself without your intervention," I snap back sharply, my eyes narrowing in annoyance.

But despite my snapped response, due in part largely by the Youko within me, even he is not daring enough to chance looking at mother now.

"Shuichi?" her voice is tired, and pained.

I cringe mentally and sigh heavily, turning to shoot her a sidelong glance. "Forgive me, Mother. I did not mean what I said — I am sorry. Please, do not worry about me."

Among other things, another not-quite-as-subtle effect of the medication regimen I have been placed on is sudden outbursts of annoyance. The mood swings that accompany my medications cause me to say several ill-thought-out things to people; namely the people I care about, and who do not deserve to be placed at the forefront of my brash, untrue comments. Things I always regret saying in the long run.

"Mother," I try again, reigning in my temper, "if it is all the same with you, please allow me to stay out for awhile. I am aware that it is cold, and my health is frail, but I implore you."

She studies me critically for a moment, as she has so often been doing, before striding purposefully to my side. She slips the thin-worn coat she wears from her slim shoulders and drapes it over me. Her hand raises itself to the side of my face and her slim fingers brush a delicate line down my cheek. Then she leans up and kisses me on the forehead and pulls away.

"Just for a few moments then, dear." Then, she disappears into the house.

--

Snow covers the frail shoots left clinging lifelessly to brittle frost-bare twigs; the only remnants of my beautiful roses for this season. Seeing them like this sends a wave of cold dread pulsing over my body. Or perhaps I am just cold in this weather. Either way, the feeling does not bode well.

Crisp flakes of pure crystal shroud the garden plot, a certain eerie dead feeling encompassing the area. It will remain as such until next spring; dormant. Dead.

Something about winter — even autumn — has never gone over well with me. Perhaps it is because of the unnatural bond I have with plants; as the seasons that harbor such death come to call, I myself am put ill at ease. My mood darkens starkly when the weather brings forth the death of my plants, and my health always seems to be poor. Now, it holds no different.

A sick swooping feeling in the bottom of my stomach washes over me, a hot stinging sensation rising within me and spreading over my limbs. I close my eyes and concentrate on the feeling, trying to lesson the sensation, and yet it doesn't work. I open my eyes, the bright winter light punishing my eyes and forcing them shut again. A slow, hot burn seeps over me, my senses all on fire, and my mind wracked with sharp slashing pains, which ebb away slowly on my pulse. Yet the hot burning feeling lingers, my strength sapping exponentially. Then, it becomes unbearably cold.

--

"Shuichi…" A gentle, timid voice whispers through the darkness. My mind is a spiral of haze and uncertainty, so the voice goes momentarily unrecognized until I can pull together a strand of thought and conclude who's voice it is.

"Mother?" The word stumbles feebly from my lips, my voice weak, and throat sore and feeling as though daggers have shredded through it. I attempt opening my eyes, and half-lidded, I can discern the image of my mother. In the shallow lighting another thing catches my attention. Silent, glimmering ripples trailing from her eyes…

Tears.

_Why? Why the tears?_

She gasps in surprise as I attempt to push myself into a sitting position, succeeding only after she helps steady my shaking and unresponsive form.

"What happened to you?" she mutters feebly, her voice shaking in fear and uncertainty.

I shake my head slowly, dizziness resurfacing mildly as I do so and bringing a wave of nausea that makes me wretch convulsively with it. "I don't know," I manage despite the pain in my throat, shaking my head slowly and hoping the nausea will not rejoin it.

"Well… I-I've contacted the doctor… he-he wants to see you tomorrow morning…"

I nod, another measured, deliberate movement. "Understandable."

"Yes, well." She stands up. "Dear, I would thank your friend, there—" she motions with a sweep of her hand towards one of the shadowed corners of the room. "The boy found you and informed me." She glances awkwardly towards where she had previously motioned, obviously uneasy, and hurries from the room, the door shutting behind her quietly.

I take a moment to glance towards the corner, hoping to see whom she had referred.

The rigid countenance strikes me familiarly, and his small from is drawn in tightly, his hair baring traces of a light, fresh snow fall, and soaked bangs clinging to his pale glistening flesh. Crimson eyes take me in steadily as I watch him, and I can tell there is an air of uncertainty about him.

I turn away slightly, averting my gaze from his small figure.

Since that night in the hospital I have not seen him, nor have I spoken to him. Since that night he has kept his distance, and I deliberately made no effort to change the fact. He had acted rashly and unfairly. I did not appreciate it. So, months passed between us, the only remnants of the relationship between us, of the friendship shared between us, were the shadows and echoes that lingered. And now, now of all times he chooses to rebuild the bridge between verses?

_Some bridges are best left burned, and some bridges are best left un-built…_

Silence falls over the room like a thick fog; I train my tired gaze to the floor, examining, without much, if any, intent, the silver threads of the carpet. He still stands in the shadows, lurking almost, his form taught and drawn. Then finally, his voice breaks through the stillness.

"Kurama, you were right." His voice is tired, as though saying those four simple little words has drained his strength reserves entirely.

I stay silent, feeling that I have nothing to say. I refuse to meet his gaze.

"Maybe I _was _afraid to come to grips with the fact that you're not the same person." His voice grows weak, almost reflective.

I still say nothing.

_"_But, the fact remains, you're different. I have to live with that. And I haven't been."

"Really, who would have thought _that_?" I reply coldly at his latest statement, my eyes narrowing in sheer annoyance as I finally turn to face him.

He meets my gaze unflinchingly, though his crimson orbs dim considerably at the sight of me so visibly and obviously annoyed — as a human, obviously my emotions are a bit more transparent than they had been when I was Youko. When he speaks, his voice is dead, "You're ever the wit, just like Youko."

"Perhaps." I reply calmly, toning down the harshness of my voice, though still allowing the annoyance I feel at having him appear to me like this, and my irritancy at him linking me to Youko again, be apparent.

He nods slowly, more to himself than to me. "Yes. But still, you're not Youko. You're Kurama; Shuichi…"

"There is no need for you to tell me who I am," I reprimand him mildly, my gaze softening at his reluctance.

"I'm aware of that," he snaps, but half-heartedly. "But I need you to tell me who you are. I can't know you if you're not sure about who you want to be — which one you want to be."

I drop my gaze again, the gravity of his last sentence striking me painfully. "You answered your own question a moment ago. That is who I am — who I chose, Hiei."

A moment of silence follows, as he draws himself out of the shadows and approaches my bedside. His gaze, once cold and calculating, is impossibly softened in emotion. His gaze captures mine intently for a moment, his crimson eyes locking with mine. Then he turns away sharply, his gaze averted, and black bangs masking his features from view when he next speaks.

"You are Shuichi. I know you'll never be Youko again." His voice is flat and I cannot help but wonder why he has turned away from me. I can perhaps hazard a guess as to why, however.

"You are right," I reply slowly, nodding. "Youko is my past; he always will be, and I would do well to remember that. But Shuichi is my future and you would do well to remember that as well."

"I know that," he replies tiredly, grudging acceptance. "I know you were right. You're not the same, but you're not all that different either."

"In hindsight, I would say that you are right," I grant him with a slight, thoughtful nod.

"I was only afraid to accept that fact."

"Fear is such a curious thing," I muse. "And on the note of curious things," I tilt my head towards him curiously, "What brings you back?"

My response elicits a light chuckle from him. "To the point as ever, I see."

"Some aspects of a person _never_ change despite the time thrown between them," I reply lightly, allowing my lips to tuck up the merest fraction of an inch when I see he has turned once again to face me.

"It's good to know… Fox."

"Back on a friendly terms, then, are we?" I ask, observing the renewed use of him using my 'pet' name while referring to me.

He recoils slightly, as though afraid that I might be angry for his sudden change in demeanor.

"You've always been my friend, Fox," he concedes mildly, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks as he admits this to me. "I just had to realize that wouldn't change no matter which form life has you assume."

"And you have been my friend through the years as well," I supply casually, suppressing a chuckle at the sight of him so clearly ill-at-ease when he is attempting to bare his soul.

"I guess things really haven't changed, hm, Fox?" he sighs, moving towards my window.

"Not quite so," I reply sternly, a slight frown creasing my features. "It does no good to pretend that things have not changed, Hiei. You do realize—"

"Hn. Of course I understand. In fact, that's why I came back."

"Do tell."

"I thought a lot about what you said," he admits in what I am supposed to take as an off-handed manner — and in the same sentence he is admitting that our argument weighed heavily on him, actually affected him.

At the second notion I cannot help but smile. At least now I know that what conspired that night affected him at least as badly as it did me, and his is giving me another one of those rare moments of insight into himself — those moments that I so relish for these very reasons. Because it serves to remind me, and probably himself, that we really are not so different.

"Thinking about it—" his voice pulls me back to attention and from my wandering thoughts. "The choice you made was really the only one I should have expected from you. But I only understand that choice. I can't understand why you're making _this_ choice."

"_This_ choice?" I repeat confused.

He nods his head heavily. "Yes. _This_ choice. Why continue it? What made you choose this when it's clearly not what you want."

"Lately, I do not know much of what I want," I add thinly.

"Stop playing the optimist. It doesn't suit you at all," he barks, throwing me a disgusted look.

I chuckle, rolling my eyes. "Practice makes perfect and all that, you know."

"Idiot Fox," he sighs deftly, though I can tell he is not using the term derogatively, but with a friendly affection. "I just came to tell you that I finally understand you. And your choices."

"Choices?" I ask, wondering as to why he used the plural form of the word. "I have only made one as of yet, as far as I am aware."

"Then you aren't very aware, are you?" he grumbles, rapping his knuckles against the pane of my window and letting out a long, heavy sigh.

"So fill me in you mangy Firefly," I challenge him, failing miserably in my attempt to sound menacing, which only makes the laugh I am already staving off threaten even more.

"I understand the choice you made," he begins slowly, apparently not in a playful mood. "And I understand the choice you're going to make if you stop lying to yourself," he finishes as he picks at the locks on my window and opens the thing.

I remain silent, watching as the winter breeze picks up the tread of his cloak and sends it billowing out behind his small form fluidly. In a flash of black I catch the advance of a small gleaming object and instinctively extend my hand. With deft ease, I snatch the object from midair, clasping it tightly in my fist.

"You're reflexes are still sharp as ever," he comments from the window as he hoists himself upon the ledge with feline grace.

"You expected something less of me?" I reply teasingly. My reply warrants some muttered retort of 'cocky bastard just as always' from him. I chuckle.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye," he huffs, the words no more than a fleeting breath on the wind. "Farewell, Kurama."

"Farewell?" I inquire, confused. "You make it sound as though this will be the last time you see me among the living," I reply mildly, the corners of my mouth tilting upwards in a placid smile.

He turns to look at me; apparently my false cheer does not fool him. He shakes his head lightly, his piercing crimson eyes lingering on me with an air of sadness about them. His crimson gaze radiates an unspoken understanding and echoes his unbidden thoughts clearly: _It's alright, I understand. You can stop lying to yourself._

I nod in sudden, unbidden understanding, breaking his gaze and turning instead to stare at some unforeseen pivotal point above his shoulder with unblinking eyes.

He darts from the window then, disappearing into the night as silently and suddenly as he had first come — so much like the shadows he clings to.

"Yes. Farewell, Hiei…" I whisper long after he has gone.

I unclench my fist to look for the first time upon the object he had thrown at me. Against my pale flesh the clear sparkling brilliance of the small spherical bead is magnified tenfold. The hirui is bound carefully to a long leather throng witch spills haphazardly from my grip, the black leather band dangling limply in the stilled night.

My reflection is mirrored silently in the small gem and I turn away from the bead.

_He is right._

The hirui slips from my hold, falling with a muffled thud into the folds of my partially discarded bed sheet. It gleams innocently in the pale moonlight filtering in from my opened window.

_I cannot continue lying to myself._

My hands clench tightly around the loose fabric of the sheets, my knuckles turning iridescent white in the ethereal light. My eyes gaze blankly at the single hirui gem.

_I have lived so long in the shadows of the lies I forged out to live in this world. I have always been hiding behind the lies; always eclipsed by them; always in the dark…_

"You are right, Hiei," I mumble to the silence. "It really is farewell…"

A single hirui bead glows in the pale light.

_But now you have given me a chance to see the light._

_For once, I will not lie. I will not hide from the truth._

_For once, I will listen to my heart._

_For once, I will not lie to myself…_


	15. 5: Broken Hourglass

**Parting of Ways**

--

_Part II: Broken Hourglass_

_Even the innate cannot escape_

_The unrelenting hands of Fate,_

_The glass rose is no exception._

_The hourglass runs steadily,_

_As each second is claimed to time,_

_Destruction embraces the object,_

_It fades away, lost to time._

_Snip. Snip. Snip._

The rhythmic tones pass over my ears steadily; the cool caress of metal along my forehead feels oddly familiar, though wholly different from the sensation I was once accustomed to. Scarlet tresses fall to the floor like rain.

_Crimson rain._

I cringe mentally as I think back on that evening, now so many moons ago. Several moons have come to pass. And yet, with each dawn that surfaces, the chasm which should steadily separate me from that incident does not grow. Time passes, and yet it does not. It is as though the hourglass is running, dictating life as usual, but I am somehow lost to the flow of time.

_Or perhaps I just dwell too much on the past…._

_Snip, snip, snip._

Metal slides seamlessly over my flesh. The tissue left in its wake is unmarred, and yet, red still flows. Lengthy streams of crimson descend before my eyes, onto my shoulders, spilling onto the linoleum floor. And yet, it is not blood.

"There now, we're done." The voice of a cheery female demands my attention, my eyes snap up to her face. She is smiling. Such a plastic, false gesture.

She passes me a small, circular hand mirror. I look myself over briefly. No longer does my hair spill gracefully about my shoulders. Left in the wake of my once-long hair remains only a seemingly unkempt short cut, a feeble reminder, at best.

"Thank you," I reply politely, handing back the mirror as she unties the uncomfortable string that has been fastened about my neck. The cloth falls to the floor, littered with flecks of red.

I stand up and bow slightly, feeling slightly off-center after having had to sit down for such a length of time prior.

Mother is standing at the counter with her wallet in hand as I approach her. She smiles at me_** — **_not quite as plastic, yet just as unassuming. I nod lightly in her direction to acknowledge that I have seen her as I make my way towards her and the counter.

She pulls out a few wrinkled bills and a handful of yen from her purse and passes them to the man waiting behind the counter.

--

"It's nice to be able to see you properly again," mother replies matter-of-factly, though I can sense the strain in her voice, once we are in the car en route to home.

"Hmmm," I reply mildly, not knowing what more to say.

"Though… I'll admit, seeing you with short hair again seems so odd, Shuichi, dear."

I nod. It has been a few years now since I last had short hair. I was fourteen, actually, if I remember correctly. Shortly before I had met Hiei for the first was when I had started to grow out my hair. It did not go over well with mother, at first.

"_Shuichi, dear," Mother began slowly, her voice faintly reprimanding, "don't you think you should let me take you to the barber?"_

_The boy sitting in the chair next to her lowered his gaze slightly in respect. "But I like my hair this way, Mother."_

"_But dear, it's getting too long. Really, it's starting to look ridiculous," she rebuked, tracing her fingers deftly through the tresses growing long against the nape of his neck._

"_It's not ridiculous. I look fine and everyone at school likes it too," the boy argued slowly, keeping his gaze to the floor._

_She sighed. "Honestly… I just don't know what it is with teenagers these days… always acting so radically…"_

"_Mother, I assure you, I will look fine. Please trust me and my judgment."_

_She nodded, though reluctantly. "Of course, dear… I'll give this a chance… I promise…"_

_She had stayed true to her words, and he had been correct. His hair continued to grow out, and he really did look good, she conceded. He was growing up splendidly, and his long hair suited his gentle spirit perfectly as well as his naturally feminine features and build. He had many female admirers, for, whom was she kidding; her son was growing into quite the handsome young man._

Silence engulfs us. I stare blankly at what little is left of the bland winter scenery; mother seems to be lost in her own thoughts. Then, after a subdued moment of overdrawn silence, I hear mother giggle slightly and I turn to her questioningly.

"What is it, Mother?"

She shakes her head slowly, still giggling. "Dear, your hair isn't there any longer, you've nothing to play with," she tells me.

I blink, trying to make sense of what she has said. It is then that I realize I have been trying to twirl a strand of hair about my finger out of boredom. Needless to say, it is a strand of hair that is no longer present at the time.

I pull my hand back, laying it feebly on the armrest of the car door feeling slightly embarrassed at my actions. Mother only smiles.

"You must hate this." It is more a statement than a question.

"Pardon?"

"Having to get your hair cut, dear."

"It is not as though I had much choice in the matter."

At my response the teasing, cheerful tone in her voice falters and disappears immediately again. "Yes, that's true…" she sighs heavily. "It was getting very thin, wasn't it, dear?"

"Yes. If I would not have had it cut, I would have looked rabid. It looks better short, all things considered."

"I'm just surprised that it hasn't all come out, dear."

"As am I. Doctor Masaha seemed to think it should have by this point."

_Really, it is not surprising that I still have my hair. Youko may be at bay, but he still resides within me and his soul gives me a certain amount of endurance most mortals don't possess to stand up to my treatment regimen._

"Especially since they increased the amount of your Chemo…" Mother's voice trails off as she makes this statement.

I nod in deft agreement, reflecting back to when the news that my treatment would have to be increased had first graced mother's and my ears.

"_So, Mr. Minamino," Doctor Masaha addressed him as he and Shiori sat in his office, "tell me what you recall feeling before fainting."_

_The young man whom he had been addressing looked up respectfully, turning his gaze from his hands, laying without much abandon in his lap, to the man's face._

"_Well," he began tentatively, not sure as to how much he wished to reveal to this man, "a burning sensation spreading throughout all of my limbs, and sharp searing pains feeling as though my veins were being ripped open."_

_The Doctor nodded, scribbling away at the clipboard held up on his knee and continued on, his gaze lingering on the papers upon which he was writing. "Anything more? Bleeding prior to this incident perhaps?"_

_He nodded. "Yes. Just minutes before, while still in the car, my gums had begun bleeding. Though it was only slight, and stopped very briefly thereafter."_

_At this, the Doctor added a final note to his clipboard and looked up at the young man, an odd emotion mirrored in his eyes. "Mr. Minamino, let me see your arms."_

_Confused by the Doctor's particular request, he held out both arms to the man. The Doctor pulled back the sleeves of the shirt the boy wore and examined the underlying flesh. Pale silken flesh, perfect and untouched all but for the steady knotted lacerations running vertical and horizontal lengths up the majority of his lower underarms as though crimson thread had been run through his flesh._

_Nodding to himself, the Doctor lifted a hand to the said flesh and ran his fingers along the largest of the beaded trails in a quick fashion applying a persistent and gently pressure upon the tissue in question. Then he pulled his hand away and examined the fingers he had used to carry out these motions._

_Neither Kurama nor his mother said anything throughout this strange examination, both just waiting in a cloak of thick silence for the Doctor to address them with whatever he seemed to have discovered for himself._

_The Doctor turned to them both again after another moment, having added more notes to the clipboard propped ever presently on his knee._

"_Doctor Masaha wha__**—**__?" Shiori began, intending to ask about his curious actions._

_He shook his head to silence her and held his hand out to her, a fine stain of crimson adorning his fingertips._

_She stopped abruptly, eyes lingering on his blood stained fingers with a look of pained understanding._

_Kurama, having seen the remnants of his blood upon the doctor's fingers, glanced with a sort of intense interest and curiosity at his arms, bringing one of his hands over the self-same flesh. Replicating the Doctor's actions, he found that his motions granted the same outcome. Though why he was bleeding he wasn't quite sure of._

_He looked back up, his emerald eyes dancing between the two adults before him. They seemed to have forged a silent understanding to which he was oblivious._

"_Excuse me? Dr. Masaha, Mother?" he asked, directing their attention. "But, what exactly does this mean in correlation with my illness?"_

_At his inquiry, his mother turned away, eyes downcast._

_The Doctor sighed, consulted his clipboard yet again, and turned at last to look at him. "Well, Mr. Minamino, although this points in one direction, the medical field has much room for misdiagnosis. Before I make any conclusions, I'd like to take some more blood samples for examination by our lab."_

_Clearly this was not good news._

_He nodded. "Of course, do as you see fit."_

………

_A few days later he and his mother sat once again in Doctor Masaha's office. The look the he bore when they entered and took their seats was not very reassuring._ _Forgoing all the formality that was 'good day, how are you?' and such related small talk, he came straight out with what seemed to be on his mind. Instead of speaking to the patient, however, he spoke to his mother._

"_Mrs. Minamino, after another blood test the results confirm my fears. His counts are reaching almost critical levels. His health is astoundingly stable for having such dangerously high counts, actually. But, that aside, I suggest increasing his treatments. Young as he still is, using too high levels can be dangerous, of course. But presently I find it to be the best available course of action."_

_She nodded slowly, her voice failing her._

_Then, he turned to her son, sitting politely next to her, a look of deepest sorrow held on his features, though his sorrow seemed to be directed solely towards his mother and not at all towards himself in light of his lethal diagnosis._

"_Mr. Minamino," the Doctor began, suddenly addressing him. "Since it is agreed, you shall be starting a higher level of therapy. With these higher levels of radiation and Chemotherapy in your system, the repercussions will, of course, be greater on your body. The pains, bleeding, drowsiness or weariness, and all other symptoms you have been experiencing will most likely worsen. You may also expect nausea, anemia, and hair loss among other things."_

… … …

_A mere week following the Doctor's revelation about his exponentially worsening condition life seemed to have taken on a hint of the normalcy it had once possessed for him and the household in which he resided._

_He had started his new regimen of therapy, and was happy that the side effects mentioned by the Doctor had only been mildly apparent. Drowsiness plagued him often enough with the accompaniment of anemia, yet it did nothing to slow his daily routine too significantly. Bleeding and pain were a daily occurrence and one he had learned to live with. All things aside, however, it seemed that things had started looking up for him._

_Standing before the sink in the bathroom one morning he washed his face, splashing it with refreshingly cool water in hopes of waking himself up. Having revitalized himself, he took up the brush lying next to the sink basin and began to sort through the tangles that had set in over the past few hours he had spent sleeping._

_Pulling the brush slowly through his hair a few times he gently disentangled the worst of the knots and pulled the brush back, ready to clean it for later use. His eyes fell when he saw the brush. Caught spectacularly between the coarse bristles were long crimson strands of his hair__** — **__hair he hadn't felt being pulled out._

_Mildly surprised, he brought a hand up to his head and ran it through the crimson tresses. Upon pulling his hand back, more silky wisps had fallen into his open palm._

"Shuichi? Dear?" The familiar voice registers faintly in my mind, and yet, only a gently laid hand on my shoulder draws me from my reprieve.

"Sorry, mother," I apologize listlessly, not really knowing what I am apologizing for. "What is it?" I mutter quickly, turning to her.

She is holding the car door open for me. "We're home dear. You were asleep almost the entire way home."

I nod, get out of the car, and follow her into the house silently, stopping briefly behind her to slip off my shoes and slide them along the wall. She does the same and hangs her coat upon the rack that Hatanaka had built onto the wall months ago. I slip the coat I was wearing off as well and placed it on its corresponding hook.

"Shuichi, dear," Mother begins from beside me suddenly, her voice alight with interest, "since when do you wear jewelry?"

I turn to her, confused. "What do you mean?"

She steps to my side and brings a hand to my throat, pulling gently on the leather thong I have about it. She pulls on it slowly, exposing the small spherical gem that is fastened onto the center of it.

_I must have exposed the leather strap when I was pulling off the coat…_

She fingers the small bead idly, admiring it. "Where ever did you get this dear?"

I take the bead from her hands slowly and hide it underneath my shirt once more, pulling up the collar on the shirt slightly to hide the leather band as well. "I dear friend gave it to me some time ago," I reply shortly, beginning to exit the entryway.

Mother follows me closely. "A dear friend? Why, Shuichi, dear, is this a lady friend, perhaps?" she asks almost coyly.

"No, of course not, Mother. You would be the first to know if that were the case," I reply off-handedly.

_Not the best thing to say, and I have caught myself too late._

Mother stops behind me. I can tell because her slippered feet no longer shuffle along the marginal carpet behind me.

_Apparently, my reply has startled her._

"Not a lady friend?" Her voice seems skeptical and oddly worried. "Surly, dear — you don't mean to say that… a-another young man gave you that?"

"That would be the case, yes."

A moment of silence ensues, in which I curse myself mentally for saying what I just had. Did the increased medication I was on alter my general awareness and reasonable thought process this drastically? Now only more awkward questions will ensue. That is, if mother has sense enough to ask them; she still has not said anything to my latest reply.

"Shuichi, dear." Her voice is calm and gentle, yet I know that whatever is to follow, I had best listen, because she is not in the mood for anything less of me. "I'd like to have a talk with you."

I nod, knowing full-well that I could expect nothing less.

I follow as she leads the way into the kitchen and sits down at the table, bidding me to do the same. I do so unquestioningly and await the barrage of questions that are sure to ensue.

"Dear, if I may ask—" I register that it is not a polite plea for my assurance but more a statement that she intends to regardless of my answer, "—who did you receive that necklace from, if not from a lady friend?"

"He is a dear friend who wanted to give me it as a sign of — understanding — between us upon finding out about my condition," I reply mildly. I will not lie; I just do not intend to divulge more of the truth than is needed to answer a particular question.

"I see. Which friend is this? That Yuusuke boy? He has a girlfriend you know_**—**_"

I shake my head. "No, it is not Yuusuke, mother. And I am fully aware that he has a girlfriend. Her name is Yukimura, Keiko."

"Then who?" she prompts, looking slightly flustered.

"His name is Hiei."

"Hiei…" she repeats, contemplating for a moment. "Which one is that?"

"You have met him," I assure her. "He is the shortest of them. Black, spiked hair, usually wearing black. Stubborn attitude. And if you have talked to him at all he is most likely to respond with a single syllable."

"Shuichi, dear," she begins gently as she realizes to whom I am referring, "not that I don't trust your judgment in friends, but really, you shouldn't be _involved_ like _that_ with people like him."

Her voice is so critical and worried I cannot help but smile wryly.

"Mother, I assure you Hiei and I are not like _that_. There is no need to worry." I chuckle lightly, my head shaking in disbelief.

"But…"

"He is only a friend whom I have known for years. There is nothing going on between us."

"You're sure?"

"Completely."

"But you'd tell me if… you…"

"Of course."

She sighs, a wave of relief noticeably passing over her features.

"I don't know what I was thinking," she laughs lightly to herself, though somewhat forcibly. "I… ah… I'm just going to freshen up then, dear…"

She stands and exits the room. I watch her go feeling more amused than I have in the longest time. This has been one of the first actual conversations she and I have shared in quite a while; what an intriguing topic of discussion.

Just as I am about to contemplate the nature of her concern, and whether there is a tangible reason that she should have worried at all, a piece of pristine paper catches my eye.

Naturally, I must look upon it.

I pull the paper towards me along with a few others that had been piled haphazardly atop it. From the looks of it, it is just today's mail. Hatanaka's pay stub, a letter from Omura-san — a long time neighbor of ours that had recently moved to Niigata — and then, the paper that had originally caught my attention.

A single white envelope adorned by the finest penmanship in black charcoal ink. The sender is mother's bank, which is intriguing in and of itself. Noticing that the envelope has already been opened, and the paper within it had been shoved none-to-neatly back in place, I make no hesitation in slipping out the paper again and examining it.

Trailing well past halfway down the page were several columns of seemingly insubstantial numbers, followed behind by their not-quite-as-insubstantial meanings: namely, the list of the company to which the certain amount of money is owed.

That company, which trailed each figure closely, was the hospital.

Ignoring the sinking feeling that has taken hold of me at the realization, I glance down the page, looking towards the bottom and the official seal that greets me. Reading through the lines of fine text that follow, my eyes widen at the last sentence.

"_Notice of Foreclosure."_

Following behind are the false words of 'have a good day.' My throat tight, I turn again to the figures near the top. Numbers followed by countless zeros followed by 'Nakayama General Hospital' in bold face behind them.

I put the paper back into the envelope slowly and replaced the mail, retreating soundlessly to my room to think. Once in my room, my mind, which had been momentarily fogged, buzzes with anger. Not anger at mother for not showing me this interesting little paper, and not anger at the hospital or the bank. Just anger at myself.

How, I wonder morosely, can things have gotten this bad? I know that mother had had to quit her office job, as well as her part-time job with Hatanaka in his Ramen shop. Well, it is not that she had to; just that she did in order to take me to my almost daily hospital or clinic visits. That left only Hatanaka's job to support the four of us. With mother not working it left us with one income and more bills than one household should ever have to handle.

The fact that we have bills does not bother me, and it should not, seeing as everyone has them_** — **_or, at least every respectable, tax-paying citizen does. What bothers me are three things: The first being the 'Notice of Foreclosure' lying on our kitchen table. The second being that the foreclosure notice has occurred because of increasing debts owed that mother cannot pay, being out of work. The third is simply the fact that the debts in question_** — **_the ones causing this all — are from the Nakayama General Hospital and are all being caused by me.

And it is irreversible.

Mother quit her jobs because I am ill, and the bills pile up because I am ill and she quit her jobs. Because I am ill, she cannot go back to work, or she will not; and because she will not go back to work, the bills keep piling up.

_All goes round and falls full circle in an unending, unrelenting cycle._

However, just as with everything else, there is a way to fix this. It falls back on something relevant to cause and effect_** — **_problem and solution. To fix something, identify what needs to be done and do it.

In this situation, I have identified the problem.

_I am the problem._

For things to get back to normal, someone has to exterminate the problem.

_I have to be out of the picture._

But since no one wants to acknowledge me as being the problem in this equation…

_I'll have to take myself out of the picture…_


	16. 5: A Rose's Lament

_**Parting of Ways**_

_--_

_Part__III: Lamentations_

_A presentiment of what shall come_

_Splintering and falling to pieces,_

_Only pride remains to dictate_

_The moral value it harbors__**--**_

_The only whole thing it has left…_

_The knowledge that falling willingly_

_Into that which is inevitable_

_Remains the only fair thing to do,_

_And so, the glass rose shatters,_

_Giving in to darkness_

"Shuichi, dear," a soft voice calls to me from somewhere within the black abyss that is my mind and, for once, my keen senses fail me because I must strain to hear it.

I open my eyes slowly, struggling to raise my weary eyelids; my vision swims momentarily before I can focus clearly on her. "What is it, Mother?"

"Are you sure about this?" she asks softly, lowering herself gently onto the couch beside me.

"I am," I reply softly, closing my eyes for a moment of pensive thought. The next words come slowly from my lips, and I know she would rather not hear them; but it needs to be said. "This is the last time I will be home, after all."

"You-you shouldn't talk like that dear_**—**_" her voice cracks lightly as she speaks. "Of course this isn't the last time you'll be home…"

I can tell she knows that I am right. For although she expresses otherwise, she is not stupid. The less-than-subtle way her voice trails off as she spoke those last words is proof enough of that.

I push myself into a shaky sitting position, wincing as pain shoots throughout my body. "It is all right, Mother; you need not lie to yourself any longer."

Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears and although her voice wavers in emotion as she speaks, it remains stern. "Don't be foolish, Shuichi."

"Mother, please—" I beg tiredly. "Please—"

"No." She shakes her head resolutely, cutting me off mid sentiment. "There will be no more talk like that, Shuichi."

I sigh tiredly. _Honestly, sometimes human's can be so stubborn and ignorant that it rivals even that of the demons._

"You're looking a bit peaky dear, you know. Are you sure you feel all right?" she asks after a moment, her hardened tone being replaced once more by her naturally soft, caring voice.

She raises a hand to my forehead and presses her palm against it gently. It is actually a quite welcome feeling, I register, a soft, cool touch against burning flesh.

"Shuichi, you're burning up," she tells me, as though I am not already well aware of the fact.

"I am fine, Mother." I shake my head slowly, battling the consistent roil of nausea that the action brings with it. "It is only fever."

"Only!" Suddenly her voice seems borderline frantic. "In your condition it's not something someone can shake off lightly!"

"You need not bother yourself over it, Mother," I reply curtly, my voice loosing its trademark calm. "I am fine."

"Don't you take that tone of voice with me young man!" Suddenly her tone matches my own. "And don't tell me how and how not to take care of my own son."

I cringe mentally as her words rip through me and look away respectfully, training my gaze on the carpet_** — **_such an interesting thing, really.

"I'm sorry, Mother…" I mumble quietly, after a moment. "I spoke out of turn…"

"Shuichi, look at me."

At her soft-spoken request I am reluctant to turn my gaze back to her. But after a moments' deliberation I do so, only to see slow crystalline tears_** — **_presumably anguished ones, frustrated ones — slipping from her eyes, sliding down her gaunt cheeks. My heart clenches painfully.

She smiles weakly in an attempt to show her composure. "I'm sorry to be this way, you know," she begins weakly, taking in a breath of repose. "It's just that, in your condition…" her voice trails off somewhat feebly.

"I understand," I nod slowly. "But it is my choice, Mother. Let me stay at home just one last time."

"Shuichi, what did I say about talking that way?"

"Kaasan_**—**_"

"No. Shuichi, there will be _no_ more of that. Is that clear, young man?"

"Of course," I reply somewhat despondently.

She gives me a thin smile, though the gesture seems forced and does nothing to settle my thoughts.

"Now," she sighs tiredly, and all at once she seems much older and more tired than usual, "I have to go to the store dear, we've run out of Aspirin. You've been running such a high fever lately, it's no surprise." She casts a tired look towards me.

_Have I truly become such a burden upon her shoulders?_

"You will be all right on your own for an hour or so, won't you, dear? I have to stop at the bank first and draw out some more money as well."

At her words, my thoughts return to the abandoned bank statement and notice of foreclosure I had seen on our kitchen table some weeks prior.

"I will be fine, mother," I reply nodding at her is assurance and closing my eyes. In the blank recesses of my mind the word 'foreclosure' drifts uneasily through my thoughts. I clench my eyes more tightly shut at this, as though it actually pains me_** — **_more than emotionally, at least.

"All right, dear. I'll try not to be too long. You just lie here and rest. You don't need to go wasting your energy pointlessly."

"I will."

She nods approvingly and turns, starting off slowly towards the door. After a few hesitant steps she turns around again. "Would you like me to get you something to eat, dear? You haven't eaten almost anything in the last week."

"No," I shake my head and bring a hand to my stomach, willing away the painful writhing that has erupted from within it at the merest mention of the word food.

"You're sure?" Her voice is almost pleading that I should change my mind.

"Yes," I nod, fully aware of the unpleasant acidic taste that has resurfaced in short time at the back of my throat. Cytoxan can do that to a person_** — **_make one horrendously nauseous even at the mere mention of food. Simply another side effect of my treatment regimen.

"All right. Well, I won't be long, dear. Just try to get some rest, then." She turns and resumes her walk towards the door.

I close my eyes, not wanting to see her go. It is hard enough to acknowledge that she is leaving; twice hard to acknowledge that it will be the last time I that I will see her go.

Part of me cannot bear it.

_Part of me can._

"Mother…" The word slips past my lips before I can stop, or indeed before I register having said it.

She stops, already halfway out the door, her hand lingering on the doorknob, about to close it behind her. "What is it, Shuichi dear?"

"I just — wanted to say — thank you for all this… And — I love you…"

She gives me that same watery smile, the corners of her mouth quivering slightly, but she says nothing. Merely turns away and closes the door behind her.

_And just like that, the deed has been done._

--

I remain on the couch a few moments longer after her departure, wary of the fact that she may have lingered around the premise. When she does not return, I readjust myself on the couch, casting my legs over the edge, and rise tentatively to my feet.

I fight back the urge to cry out in agony as my ankles and knees explode in pain upon once more attempting to support my weight. Clenching my eyes tightly shut, and supporting myself against the arm of the couch for a moment, I wait until I can manage the pain. Within a moment I compose myself and drag myself painfully across the house and with much difficulty, up the second floor landing into my room.

Stepping into the room_** — **_my room_** — **_for the first time in months it feels like, I am surprised to find that nothing really has changed. Still, it feels awkward walking, or at least trying to walk, into the room. After all this time, it no longer possesses that certain familiarity. After all this time, it is really no longer my room.

_I do not suppose after all this time that this is really my life any longer either…_

I edge over to my desk in the corner slowly. Even it has not changed. In fact, the self-same homework I had all but abandoned months ago still lies nearly untouched in the same place I had last left it.

I look past the deserted pile of homework and beyond the mass clutter that has accumulated upon the desk's usually tidy surface. Everything seems in order, and yet, I cannot find that which I am looking for. Bending carefully over the desk, and supporting myself cumbersomely on the computer chair sitting before it, I shift aside the papers and my Fujiyama paper weight, searching. After a moment, I spot it.

A single, ornate, slightly crumpled paper crane.

I take up the worn bird in one hand, a wry smile flitting across my features. Then, I proceed to drag myself down the stairs again.

By the time that I manage the stairs and pull myself into the kitchen I am in excruciating pain and exhausted. Not that it matters, because I do not have the time to rest. I have work to do, and roughly three-quarters of an hour to do it in. So my body can wait just a while longer for the rest it seeks. Inari knows that soon it will get all of the rest it has ever desired.

I turn numbly towards the kitchen entrance and pull slightly on the small catch that reveals the hidden kitchen door. All right, perhaps it is not technically hidden, but it is one of those French sliding panel doors that just slides into the wall. So, unless you know that there is a door there, you would never know otherwise. I never did understand why kitchens needed doors; indeed I never thought they served much purpose. But, I suppose there is always a convenience to them at certain times.

_This being one of them._

I pull on the panel slowly, easing it gently out of its frame so as to not set the sliding panel off of its rollers. Once it is aligned with the opposite wall, and is securely closed, I sigh a breath of relief.

That's one less thing I have left to do.

Now, I turn my attention towards the sink. There is a solid crystal vase sitting perched upon the window ledge above it, and currently it plays host to three roses. Three, now out of season, and horribly wilted, roses.

I wander over slowly, measuring each step with careful deliberation so not to cause myself more pain than is absolutely necessary.

Carefully, I remove one of the roses from the vase and examine it. Its state is so wretched that there is not much to be done for it. However, I can no longer bring forth my own roses. I simply do not have the amount of energy necessary to manifesting that much ki. This will be painful enough, without the added burden of manifesting my own plants; but it is still better than nothing.

I set the rose down on the counter next to the washbasin briefly and turn on the cold water. Also, knowing full well what awaits me, I roll up the sleeves of my sweater.

At the sight of my exposed flesh beneath the fabric I cringed. Once clear, youthful flesh_** — **_albeit dotted with crimson treads _**— **_has been ravaged by hideous purple spots. Subcutaneous bleeding. Rather like bruising, only not exactly the same thing. And, the severity of them dictates well the expansion of the disease. Like some strange, foreboding internal clock. First it had been my chest and back; now they have spread to everywhere.

I turn my attention back towards the rose and pick up the frail thing slowly. Resting the bloom near the bottom of the sink basin, yet keeping it clear of the water rushing ferociously from the faucet, I take a breath of resolve and concentrate.

Slowly, power surges through my fingertips, I can feel it rushing through my veins, white hot and steady. Bit by bit the rose seems to be recovering stamina. As I concentrate harder, my hands begin to shake and my veins sear in pain. I ignore it, willing more of my energy into the forlorn blossom.

Searing, burning, tearing…

Old wounds tear open. In a rush of crimson my lower arms are completely drenched in blood, and while I ignore it, more streams steadily from my arms, collecting in a spectacular fountain of liquid red residue in the washbasin. My vision blurs, and suddenly my aura flow stops without warning. Overwhelmed and drained of energy, I almost collapse to the floor, but manage catching myself on the counter that I had been leaning over.

Breathing heavily, brow damp, and pain searing my skull like no other, I gaze with glazed-over eyes into the basin. The rose I have tended to lays perfect once more amidst a sea of crimson, and sheltering idle droplets from being lost down the drain.

At least one part of our little aura exchange has faired well.

My arms most certainly have not. Once again, seemingly for the millionth time, my old wounds have reopened, bursting open from the exertion it had cost me to revitalize the rose. By now, however, the bleeding has slowed to a crawl, and the reopened wounds no longer look as menacing.

I run my arms under the still-flowing water for a moment, rather enjoying the freezing sensation against raw, painful flesh. Once I have successfully numbed my arms under the icy water jet, and managed to stop the bleeding — never mind regain some of my composure all the while — I sink gratefully into a kitchen chair for a moment of peace.

A very brief moment. For looking at the clock I realize I only have twenty more minutes.

I sigh tiredly and pull a pen and paper towards me. They are conveniently placed before me since mother always has these things out for note taking purposes.

I glance towards the small ornate crane I had prior set on the table, and after a moment, I place the rejuvenated rose alongside it.

Something is amiss, however.

_There are only two objects here and I owe at least three people an explanation._

Slowly, I reach to my throat and draw from about it the necklace I have been wearing for the past few months. Then I place that, too, next to the other items.

After a moment's consideration, I begin to write.

_Do not think I do not love you. Please know that is the farthest from the truth__**—**_

No. I shake my head and crumple up the paper. No, that will not suffice. What I am about to do does not exactly say 'I love you,' after all. Let me try again.

_Understand, this is for the best__**—**_

No. That will not do, either. 'Understand,' yes. That is really what she is going to do after this. Then, she will blame herself. Mind you, she will probably do that either way.

"Forget it…" I sigh dejectedly as I stand and toss both miserably failed pieces of writing into the wastebasket.

I cast another fleeting glance towards the clock. Fifteen minutes remain.

_Damn. I am running out of time._

I had hoped to leave a note, something to ease her after this, but I have not left myself the time. All I can do now is pray to Inari that she understands — though I know full-well that she assuredly will not.

I turn to the door, checking once more that it is secure against the wall, and then I turn towards the window above the sink and lock it. A quick look around the room assures me I have left nothing open. Left nothing to chance.

I turn to the stove, the ancient gas-burning stove mother adamantly refused to replace. And, for once, I can truly appreciate the resourcefulness of a the miserable thing. It makes things easy. Clean. Painless.

Turning each of the four burner controls, I set them each to about midpoint, assuring even distribution, and timeliness. The technical part now accounted for, all that remains is to sit down and wait.

Three minutes, if carried out properly, is all it takes to succumb. After five, chances of resuscitation are nearly void. As I have said: perfect, painless, clean.

I return to my chair at the table and sit down quietly, waiting patiently for the effects of the gas to take hold. Within a minute the pungent smell of the gas has permeated the area. Being that our stove is so old, it is unfortunate that it does not burn cleanly and give off an odorless gas; however, I suppose that is also a blessing. Because the odor, or pungent aroma, rather, will serve to warn mother and the others, not putting them in danger. But, really, the aroma is not horrible. It is rather bittersweet, actually.

Relaxing, almost like an anesthetic.

It must be the effects slowly taking hold of me. I lay my head down gently on the table, my eyes looking out towards the three objects sitting before me.

A hirui. A rose. A crane.

Hiei. Mother. Botan.

_I hope you will understand._

My eyelids feel heavy, almost as if from sleep. And really, I suppose that is what it is — sleep. My breaths are coming out in short draws now, as with each intake of breath I take in a lungful of that sweet pungent aroma and with each exhalation nothing escapes me.

Like my lungs are slowly being filled, until they can take in no more.

My vision swims, and the shadows splaying across the kitchen walls wink at me dolefully. The small orange oven light dances in my vision. I turn my head slowly to the side and blink several times to focus my sight. After a moment I am able to focus on the time.

Five minutes left.

I smile tiredly, turn my head to the side facing the three objects, and close my eyes.

_And suddenly, I am falling through the darkness._

_Passing into a slumber from which there is no waking._


	17. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

_--_

_Stepping Stones: A Path towards Redemption_

_No longer whole,And lacking a physical body, _

_One would think it through._

_Yet, the legacy will remain_

_Through remembrance,_

_Through what was left behind._

_The glass rose will never be gone,_

_So long as memory remains._

Obsidian perfection. A pure and unobstructed blanket of ebony. Dark and unnerving, yet oddly calming all at once. Complete serenity in the face of unparalleled mourning. In the face of such a night, not even the doleful moon seems inclined to appear, nor the stars._ A sign of bleak and looming reality perhaps?_

And yet, amid the darkness, like a lone beacon of sorely misplaced hope, early blooms flutter in resistance of the steady evening breeze, carrying the scent of recently fallen rain.

Winter has recently fallen away into something like a distant past, and already the Cherry tree in the front yard bears the fruits of what will surely be yet another lovely Spring. Young and frail shoots, bearing faint, premature tinges of pinkish-roan, cling tenaciously to the generally stark-bare and brittle branches that adorn the tree's upper canopy. It seems that they, at least, have the will to survive.

I sigh quietly, allowing my gaze to wander over the area. Darkness, aside from the cherry blooms, and the wane glow of light filtering from gaps in the otherwise still-drawn curtains of the house before me, are all that I can see.

Indeed, all that I can feel is the darkness, pressing on me from all sides; suffocating in its own right.

"Kurama, are you ready? It's almost time."

I tense at the voice issued from behind me, having been caught unaware. After a moment, I relax and turn to gaze at the woman behind me.

Looking back at me with such despondent eyes and an unfazed expression painted on her features, she really does portray Death. At least, more so than her companions do most times. Of course, she never really looks any different to begin with, I suppose. Her face always seems to hold a relatively neutral expression, her raven hair is always pulled back neatly, with an almost professional air, and the deep violet kimono she always wears gave her a very serious look. When compared to the others in her trade: Lena, Hinageshi, and Botan — well, it is not difficult to see that she is the most mature and the best suited to the profession.

I nod slightly in response, my gaze darting to rest briefly upon the house once more. "I suppose it is for the best, Ayame."

When she replies, her voice sounds strangely ethereal. "Perhaps you'd like to say good bye?"

A hollow chuckle escapes me as I think back on the failed attempts I had made for notes. "I tried once today, and failed miserably."

"Such a fatalistic reaction," she sounds almost bemused. "Quite a different stand from when you made this decision in the first place," she observes, raising an eyebrow.

"Indeed," I comply quietly, shifting my shoulders uncomfortably. "Death certainly has a way of doing that to a person."

"Are you implying that you made a mistake in doing this, and are now regretting it?" she asks quietly, tone utterly neutral and still managing to belay understanding.

"Oh no," I respond curtly with a shake of my head. "No. The time for that_** — **_for remorse, for regrets and second-guessing myself_** — **_the time for all of that has long since passed."

"Yet you're reluctant," she notes wisely.

"Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time," I quote, finding the words extremely fitting given the current circumstance.

"You don't seem quite convinced of that."

Brief anger surges through my veins at her reply and for the first time in quite a while, I can feel a familiar presence awakening within me. It seems that with physical restraints no longer binding him, Youko once more flows freely within me. My eyes narrow in slight annoyance and I cast her a scathing look.

"I have no regrets," I reply, my voice coming out in a low baritone whisper.

She holds my gaze unflinchingly, her countenance and features remaining, as ever, unchanged. A moment of silence follows, in which the wind picks up, whistling quietly through the branches of the Cherry tree sending a few of the loose, premature blooms plummeting to their deaths after a final, sensual dance on the wind.

I sigh dejectedly, my gaze softening again after an extended moment. "My apologies, Ayame. I should not act this way."

She merely turns, and for a moment, I am not sure what exactly to make of it. Have I angered or upset her? Offended her perhaps? I am not sure any of those things are the best thing to do to the Ferry woman who is supposed to see your way into Reikai, but what is done, is done, I suppose.

"Well then, if you've left nothing undone, let's be off then, shall we?" she suggests.

"Sure," I agree, not knowing what else to do. I cannot remain here, that much I know. But where exactly I will end up from here, I cannot quite say either.

I turn and make my way slowly towards her, watching as she conjures her oar and perches herself upon its slim shaft. After a moment of silent misgivings, I join her, taking up residence behind her. As I situate myself in a feeble attempt to find a comfortable position, my eyes dart once more towards the house, and the warm glow of golden light permeating the darkness from behind the kitchen curtains. At the site, my heart clenches painfully, and suddenly it is all I can do not to have misgivings._ Why? Why? Why?_

I shake my head slowly, turning away from the site, eyes downcast, and fixed steadily on the ground. Yet, now that the emotions have surfaced, being rid of them will not be an easy feat.

"Ayame?" I ask suddenly, in an attempt to direct my mind towards anything other than the house and my treacherous thoughts.

She turns to look at me slowly, a quick glance over her shoulder. "What is it, Kurama?"

"Why did Koenma send you as my Ferry woman? You are his personal assistant; he would have normally sent someone in your stead, I assume."

At my inquiry, her normally expressionless face adopts a sad, sympathetic look. She sighs heavily. "Well, yes. That would be the case usually, you know. You're right..."

"But this isn't 'usually' am I correct?" I ask, my mouth curling into a slightly cynical smile in spite of myself. Hardly anything with me in life was _usual_ and I do not suppose I can entirely escape that nature even in death.

She nods, a sad smile adorning her features. "But you see, it's because it's you, and that's the problem. Lord Koenma couldn't very well have sent Botan to collect you, now could he?"

I cringe at hearing her name, and though I am fairly sure of what answer it will warrant me, I ask the obvious question: "Why not?"

"Lord Koenma knows what happened between the two of you, you know." She gives me a pointed look. "He also knows very well how Botan feels for you. She's been in a right miserable state ever since that night."

This revelation, while not unsurprising, does nothing to settle my already melancholy thoughts. So, now I know assuredly. Since the night she departed my house — even then, presumably since the incident at Master Genkai's — she has been having issues coping. Again, not unsurprising. But still not what I want to hear at the present time.

"She knows what you did, of course," Ayame continues on, pulling my attentions back to her. "But she's a mess of tears; there's no way she could have gone through with being your Ferry woman."

I nod, my head feeling heavy. "Understandable."_ Remind me to apologize to her when next I see her, if she is willing to look me in the eyes at least._

I pause for a moment, not sure whether I should voice my next question. "And what about Hinageshi?"

Another thin smile follows the former. "Same situation. That girl's been so taken with you since she met you that Lord Koenma didn't think she'd be competent enough to carry out her duties."

I fall silent after her answer. I should not find this news too startling, and yet, it comes as quite a shock. After all, when you choose death in the face of life, feeling that you have caused too much pain in life, only to find out that you have inadvertently pained Death as well, it leaves you feeling rather guilty and out of place.

"Well, if that's all then...?" Ayame inquires lightly.

I nod, slightly unaware, finding my gaze, rather subconsciously, lingering once again on the house. "Yes... let's... go..."

I hear her sigh, and I cannot be certain, because I am still looking in the opposite direction, but I think she may have turned to me for a brief moment, before I feel the slight tug of the oar being sent into motion.

Then slowly, as we begin to ascend, she looks away again, leaving me staring after the house and its fading kitchen light as the glow continues to diminish as darkness and newfound distance swallow it up.

Just before the lingering glow of yellow fades completely from my vision I hear her whisper quietly, "All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain."

And then, we are gone.

--

A windswept valley, long tendrils of jaded grass billowing gracefully in the breeze. Above us menacing cliffs loom, stretching towards the highest reaches of the infinite sky and looking, in their own rights, magnificent. The stark contrast of placid valley and craggy cliffs is strangely appropriate for the area. And, to complete the array, a river, winding its way through the center of the valley treacherously.

Sitting along the nearest of the two river banks is an old row boat, looking quite worse for the wear, as though it has been used a few too many times in its life. The harsh rapids have taken their toll upon the boat's structure, and I find it completely plausible that its next passage could very well be its last. Farther away, looming downstream of the vicious torrents, a conveniently placed foot bridge arches over the river. Its body, unlike that of the boat, is not in constant contact with the river's harsh berating and so, structurally. Is fairing slightly better. It looms almost majestically over the rapids, remaining well out of the water's way, and yet remaining near enough to make crossing its threshold a slightly unnerving thing. Returning to the opposite side of the river once more, past the rowboat and continuing upstream, nothing but an open stretch of white water, raging furiously, greets the eyes.

And that, in all its glory, is the _Sanzu River_.

Truly the _River of Three Crossings_._ And of those three crossings, I hate to think which faces me._

It is truly the greatest form of Judgment Reikai can pass upon its souls. Not even the word of Enma stands strong if the river purges one before coming face-to-face with he who ultimately rules Reikai.

Traditionally, those with few sins are to ford the river in the provided rowboat. Their going is neither too easy, nor too difficult; a perfect medium for a person who's life was neither of the two. Those with no sins must merely cross the footbridge. For all who treaded through life as a Saint, the bridge offers assured, and painless entry into Reikai. Of course, such pure souls are rare this day and age as the human spirit is often tempered with greed and lust for those things we cannot have; the bridge is rarely used now. Those with many sins to their name have to swim the river. It is ideal that someone with much foul play under their name should meet the same hell in death as in life; swimming the river is surely nothing pleasant, and you cannot expect anything more for such corrupt souls as it is.

I suppose that a normal child would simply have this told to them to enamor a sort of fear of sinning into them; a sort of safeguard parents use to ensure that their children learn to become respectable citizens. To such people it is no more than a myth, of course, but it serves its purpose regardless. To someone like myself, who knows well that Reikai and all adjoining myths are quite true, however, the emotion it imposes on me is slightly different.

The river stretches before me endlessly, coursing ceaselessly through the plains with no apparent end in sight. Cool jets of water splash forcefully over rock outcroppings protruding from the shallows, and the fine airborne mist spraying me is slightly refreshing. Though it is more of a call to my present reality, which is that I am actually standing at the forefront of the rest of my existence.

Ayame is beside me, looming further from the banks than myself, and she is currently perusing a small, leather-bound book. The same book that every Ferry Woman carries with her. The Grade Book. And, whatever she pulls from that Book will dictate my afterlife, and how I am to get there. Namely, how I am to cross the River and enter into Eternity.

"Kurama."

At her soft-spoken word I cast a sideways glance in her direction, only to see that she is slowly approaching me, the Book still held open in her hands. Assuming that she will further address me upon stopping once more, I remain silent and wait.

Indeed, when she stops, once more at my side, she continues on, her tone hinting at underlying confusion. "How aware were you of the consequences of your actions?"

I sigh in an attempt to calm my already frayed nerve ends. Youko's revived spirit surges through me, and for a fraction of a second I feel him take control of my body, his long untapped ki searing my veins, before I can ease my thoughts. "I do believe we've been over this, Ayame," I settle myself, still feeling my veins burn as Youko composes himself.

Her amethyst eyes flit up, in an action highly reminiscent of a Geisha, which causes me to wonder if perhaps she had been one in a former life, and linger on me for a second, before falling back upon the page she had rested on.

"Yes, I know," she nods. "I just didn't expect these notes for you." She nods again, almost as though assuring herself of the fact.

This takes me slightly by surprise, as I'm not sure how to take this news. "Would you care to elaborate on that?"

"You know that suicide is a forbidden act..." Her voice tapers off on the breeze.

I nod, still not quite sure where this is going quite yet. "Yes, I am well aware of the fact."

"...And, in that light, it's a highly punishable crime by Reikai Law..."

"Punishment being nothing short of eternal damnation, I believe," I supply, nodding to myself.

"Yes, that's right," she confirms. "Because suicide, even as a single act, counts for an almost infinite amount of single sins against the soul..."

"I know the logic."

"And, with so many sins, entrance to Heaven is all but forbidden, because it's near impossible to have more good deeds to your name than sins in the wake of suicide... usually..."_ Oh no, not that word again..._

I sigh tiredly. "Can I hazard a guess that this is not usually?" I run a hand over my face tiredly, bringing it to rest in my hair, which I tousle in slight agitation._ Will this never end?_

"Right." She looks up at me from the Book for a moment. "I'm sure you know that your soul is judged by weighing the two factors."

"Indeed."

"Because of what you did — in committing suicide, it should be pretty clear that you are bound for nothing good." Her voice falters as though in reluctance.

"I was aware of that, yes. It is part of the reason as to why I chose to do what I did." I sigh in agitation. "Eternal damnation is a small price to pay in repentance for all that I have done in my li—" I stop abruptly, forcibly correcting myself, "—In my _lives_..."

At this, she gives a tired laugh. "I hate to say this, Kurama, but your efforts were in vain."

"Pardon?"

"It's almost impossible. In fact, it's the first time I've seen it happen. But then, I've learned to expect the impossible from your group..."

"What are you implying?" I inquire, my impatience already on the brink, and Youko burning once more to free himself.

"Even with suicide in the notes, your deeds more or less even out_**—**_"

"Impossible," I cut across her sharply. "With all that I have done in my former life as Youko, it cannot be possible."

"Well," she laughs lightly, tapping the open pages of the book before her lightly, "the Book doesn't lie, Kurama."

I shake my head in disbelief and my voice drops into a low whisper, pain seeping deep into each syllable as I continue. "I've done horrible things, Ayame. You don't know; you couldn't begin to understand.

"Apparently the are not so, so horrible, Kurama," she intones placing a hand on my shoulder. I suppose she expects me to feel elated at this startling turn of events, but I cannot bring myself to it.

I have to repent for my sins somehow, Ayame," I let out a forced, hollow chuckle. "...And now, _now_ you dare tell me that, even in death, I am bound for more than I deserve because of derelict circumstance."

"Kurama..." her voice is soft and sympathetic, and I feel her hand close gently over my shoulder. I can't help but tense under her touch.

"No..." I shake my head. "The book must be wrong."

"Please," Ayame soothes, looking at me with softened eyes. "You've spent your entire life trying to make up for your past; you've done more than enough to make things right."

Her feeble attempt to console me falls on deaf ears.

"Why can't you just accept that your soul no longer bears the burden of a past you no longer hold claim to?" she asks quietly.

"A past I no longer hold claim to?" I laugh numbly. "Of course I hold claim to it!" My voice wavers slightly in agitation, cracking in feeble resistance to remain calm. "How can I not hold claim to it?"

The words are true but I am utterly beside myself saying them. At the outburst Ayame backs away from me the slightest step and watches me with cautious eyes. I know that look — one I received time and time over as Youko. She is afraid of me. Or, at this point, perhaps _for_ me. I am not so sure where my sanity is at present, lest it still be resting within the coil of my abandoned mortal flesh.

"I am still me, no matter how much time has passed, no matter what circumstance; I am still Youko and he is still me. The past was Youko's; the future is mine and I am going to use it to repent for all that was done," I finish, my breathing heavy from the outburst.

"You've spent your entire life repenting, Kurama." Her voice is still fairly quiet, but she has adopted a hardened tone. "And, ironically enough, you ended your very life doing just the opposite; by committing the most acrid sin known to humankind."

"And you're telling me I have nothing to show for it," I point out mildly, my voice bitter.

"Nothing to show for — what do you mean nothing to show for it? You've still overcome that sin, as impossible as it is, and you say that's nothing?" she asks, incredulously, slamming the Book shut.

"Exactly," I admit, watching her carefully for her reaction. "My aim was no more than for a future in which I could make up for my past, and now you dare to tell me I need not bother."

"You don't! You've done enough!" is her feeble argument — as though I could _ever_ do enough.

"It will never be enough, Ayame," I deny with a shake of the head. "You could not understand the burden someone such as myself bears."

"You've suffered more than enough, you deserve the chance you've been given," she restates, refusing to be swayed in her judgment.

"I do not, I am afraid," I reply quietly

"Why? Why don't you deserve it? Why aren't you deserving enough, Kurama? Tell me." The demanding nature of her tone demands my attention, and I find myself gazing tiredly at her.

"Some things will forever stain you, no matter how much time comes to pass; some scars never fade, and the memories never dull."

"I'm in the mind to believe you're afraid." Her voice is stony, and for once, her usually expressionless eyes meet mine with such flaring intensity that I must take a moment to marvel at how different she seems.

"Afraid? Of what per se?"

"Afraid to admit that you deserve better for yourself than what you've resigned yourself to over the past eighteen years, Kurama."

"Eighteen years is a trivial time frame in the face of centuries," I rebuke.

"You've done plenty in those eighteen years. How much have you sacrificed? How much have you suffered?"

"Not nearly enough," I reply flatly.

"When will it be enough, then?" she prompts.

I hesitate for a moment, not sure how to answer her. I am not sure I have an answer myself. Suddenly, a face that has forever been present in my life drifts across my thoughts, the image burning into the recesses of my mind._ Shiori's face..._

_My mother's face._

At the thought of her alone, I am able to find my tongue once more, and answer Ayame. "It will be enough—"

I let out a slow breath and close my eyes, concentrating on the image of my mother. Her warm smile, her forever sparkling eyes; for a moment, the regret that I did not see her as such in my final moments, and the regret that I refused to say goodbye, swell inside my chest painfully.

"...When I am able to look back down upon my mother and feel, that, in spite of the lies, I am truly a son whom she loved, and a son that has not caused her only pain and suffering beyond her years," I pause, opening my eyes slightly, gazing half-lidded at the ground. "That is when it will be enough, Ayame." My voice drifts off and I take in a deep breath of air, its crisp aroma mingled with the essence of pure River water.

"If it helps, perhaps you'd like to know part of the reason why you managed to balance your deeds against the suicide?" she asks slowly, seeming almost reluctant so say more after my confession.

"Do as you see fit," I shrug in tired resignation, deciding I no longer really care what happens.

"Lord Koenma didn't hold you fully accountable for the suicide."

I smile wanly, almost amused at the Junior Ruler's incompetence. "You would do well to tell Koenma that as the Junior Ruler of Reikai, he should not be inclined to pick favorites."

She nods, a small smile flitting across her features; perhaps my comment had amused her?

"I can see that you've gotten your wit back. I must say, it is rather becoming of you."

"I've been told," I reply with a shrug.

"Yes, well, it's not his incompetence, as you say. Rather, it's a loop hole."

"A loop hole?" I blink. "Now I am intrigued."

"Suicide, no matter what the circumstance, is a highly punishable crime. But, there are certain factors that can lessen its potency, so to speak. In your case," she stops for a moment, as though trying to recall what she means to say, "it was lessened because you committed the act not out of self-deliverance, so much as concern for your family's well-being."

I remain silent, allowing her words to wash over me. I partially believe them, yet a deeper, more fundamental part of my existence still screams that I do not deserve the kind of peace that comes with death.

"Kurama, if it's proof you need, just see that as the ultimate testament," she ventures on, apparently knowing full well what my silence stands for. "You sacrificed something so incredibly indispensable for the sake of your family. A sin, yes. But, there can be no higher form of repentance than lowering yourself so much, just to assure the well-being of your loved ones."

"I do not know_**—**_"

"And besides," she continues on, dismissing my comment as though it never occurred. "Your family_** — **_your mother _**— **_loves you. They always will. What reason do they have to hate you_**—?**_"

"This final act should be reason enough_**—**_"

"Maybe so." A smile once more crosses her lips. "And so, we have found our happy medium."

"Care to explain?"

"Your family loves you, they always will; do you have mind to deny it?"

"No, I do not suppose I do," I comply.

"All right. We have that established." She nods in a self-satisfied sort of way. "Now, you still wish to repent, because, for whatever reason, you're not going to be content until you do, correct?"

"I have made that fairly clear, have I not?"

She smiles. "That's our happy medium, Kurama."

"I am not sure I see where you are taking this, Ayame," I confess.

"You realize that even in spite of your act, your family will always love you. That's one point you said you required before you could happily go on. The second to this compromise is that since suicide is still a sin, you still have some punishment to endure before you're allowed to ascend. You _want_ to repent. But, in light of everything else, you still have a chance at Heaven. Which you _do_ deserve. We both win."

I look at her thoughtfully, my mind formulating ideas and ways to prove her wrong, but her theory is sound. And, really, part of me does scream for release. And with this happy medium, I may just find my way to it. Conveniently enough for me, it is a fair compromise._ I suppose it is time I chose the middle ground. After all, yesterdays are too far-gone and tomorrows are too uncertain to build upon._

Youko can only do so much, and I have spent so long making amends for him, for me; many consider it far too long. I know I can never fully be rid of my past or of Youko, I would be a fool if I tried to be rid of them. I must still repent, of course, for as long as I reside in any of the worlds I will continue to repent for him and for myself.

And, as surely as hard times lie ahead, I can take comfort in knowing that...

_As with all else, in time, this too, shall come to pass._


End file.
